https://www.oldbaileyonline.org/record/t18960518-451AMELIA ELIZABETH DYER. Killing; murder. 18th May 1896.
Text type Trial account
Defendants AMELIA ELIZABETH DYER
Offences Killing > Murder
Session Date 18th May 1896
Reference Number t18960518-451
Verdicts Guilty
Punishments Death
451. AMELIA ELIZABETH DYER (57) was indicied for the wilful murder of Doris Marmon.
MESSRS. LAWRENCE and HORACE AVORY prosecuted, and MR. KAPADIA
Defended.
EVALINA EDITH MARMAON . I live a Cheltenham—in January, this year, I was confined of female child—in March I saw an advertisement in a Bristol paper, of which this (produced) is a copy: "Couple with no child, want care of or would adopt one: terms £10. Care of Ship Exchange, Bristol"—I wrote 20th: "Kensington Road, Oxford Road, Reading, Berks. To Mrs. Scott. Dear Madam,—In reference to your letter of adoption of a child, I beg to say I shall be glad to have a little baby girl, one that I can bring up and call my own. First, I must tell you, we are plain, homely people, in lairly good circumstances. We live in our own house, and have a good and comtortable home. We are out in the country, and sometimes I am alone a great deal. I don't want the child for money's sake, but for company and home comfort. Myself and husband are dearly fond of children. None of my own. A child with me would have a good home, and a mother's love and care. We belong to the Church of England. I would not mind the mother or any friend coming to see the child at any time, and know the child is going on all right. I only hope we may come to terms. I should like to have the baby as soon as you can arrange it. If I can come for her, I don't mind paying for one way. I could break my journey at Gloucester; I have a friend in the Asylum there I should be so glad to call and see. It'you will let me have an early reply I can give you some references.—Yours, MARY HARDING."—I replied to that letter, and received this, dated March 22nd, in the same handwriting, dated "45, Kensington Road, Reading. To Mrs. Scott. Dear Madam,—Many thanks for your letter this morning. I shall not answer anyone else till I hear from you again. I assure you I will do iny duty to the dear child I will be a mother as far as possible in my power. If you like to corns and stay a few days, or a week, later on I shall be pleased to make you welcome—it, is just lovely here in the summer. Tnere is an orchard opposite our front door. You will say H is healthy and pleasant. I think Doris a very pretty name; I am sure she ought to be a pretty child."—I answeied that, and in reply received this letter of March 24th, in the same handwriting: "My dear Madam,—Your letter just to hand, and I shall only be too pleased for yourself and any friends to come to us; we don't have many visitors out here in the country. I assure you it would be as great a treat to us as to you. I shall feel comfortable to know that the dear child has some one to care for her. I will do a mother's duty by her, and I will bring her up entirely, just the same as my own child. Every care shall be taken of her, and when you come you will see I do my duty by her, dear child. I shall only be too glad to have her; and I will take her entirely at the sum of £10. She shall be no further expense to her family. I will come on Monday next. I will let you know later on what time train. I have not a time-table, but I will find out, and let you know.—Yours faithfully, HARDING." "If Tuesday will suit you better, kindly let me know, as either day will suit me.—HARDING"—I received another letter, dated Friday morning, in the same handwriting: "My Dear Mrs. Scott,—Just a letter to say I have not heard from you to say I must not come on Monday, so I take it for granted I shall come on Monday next. I shall leave here at nine, and get to Gloucester about twelve; and go straight to Woottou Asylum; then I will take the next train to Cheltenham. I fancy I can be at Manchester Street not later than two. I hope it will be a fine day.—Faithfully yours, HARDING." "My husband says, if the mother would like an agreement, would you kindly draw one out, and we will sign it?"—I replied to that, and then received this, of Sunday, the 29th, in the same hand-writing: "My Dear Madam,—Your letter came this morning, so I will come on Tuesday next, by the 9.50. Bring a warm shawl to wrap round baby an the train. Fearfully cold here to-day.—Yours, HARDING."—On
Tuesday, March 31st, the prisoner came to my address at Cheltenham about mid-day—she said she was Mrs. Harding, and had come for the baby—before she came I had prepared this agreement—I put it before her, and she read it, and signed it—(Read: "dated March, 1896." "I, Ann Harding, of 45, Kensington Road, Oxford Road, Reading, in consideration of £10 paid to me by E. E. Marmon, agree to adopt the child, and to bring up the same as my own, without any further compensation over and above the £10.—Signed by ANN HARDING, E. E. MARMON, witnessed by MAKTHA POCKETT."—that was my landlady—I paid the prisoner the £10, and she signed the receipt at the back of the agreement—she left Cheltenham with the baby by the 5.20 train—I went with her as far as Gloucester—I took with me a cardboard box containing baby clothes; handed that to the prisoner at Gloucester—the baby was dressed in a ✗fawn-coloured pelisse and a white bonnet—this (produced) is it; it went away in that—these are the actual things it went away in—the child was quite well when it left me—she said she was going to take it to Reading—she promised to write to me the same evening—at Cheltenham she fetched a carpet bag from the cloak room, and took it with her in the train to Gloucester—this is like the bag; I could not say it is thesame; it is the same style of bag—I next received this letter from her on April 2nd—it is in the same handwriting—(Read: "Pervis Road, Kensal Rise. Dear Mrs. Scott,—When I got home last night, a wire was waiting for me—my sister dangerously ill; so this morning I came up. My dear little girl is a traveller, and no mistake. She was so good; did not mind the journey; she slept all the way. I shall stop now till Saturday. Sunday I will write again, if not before. In great haute.—I am, Yours, A. HARDING. A long letter next time.") I heard no more from the prisoner—I wrote to her on April 4th—on April 7th a police constable called on me at Cheltenham, and on the 11th I went to the mortuary at Reading at the request of the police, and there saw the body of my child—it was ten weeks old—this powder box is one of the things I sent with the child, and the cardboard box is like the one she had—it has some of the clothes still in it—there were a number of diapers in it when it went away; this is one of them; it was found round the body.
Cross-examined. I did not make any inquiries about the prisoner before the 31st—I did not ask her anything about the asylum at Gloucester; she told me it was her sister-in-law that she wes going to see there—I did not ask her for any references; I did not think it necessary—I did not take the trouble to inquire whether the statements in her letters were true—I did not go and sew her—she was not excited when I met her on the 31st—I asked her if she was Mrs. Harding, and she said she was—I noticed nothing strange in her conduct or behaviour—she did not tell me that she herself was in any asylum—I did not ask her about her previous history, she told me a lot of things—she told me about her husband and about her circumstances, that was all—she said she was fond of children—she appeared to be an affectionate woman, from her appearance and her conversation I parted with my baby; I was satisfied with her looks—I should not have thought she was capable of committing such a crime as she is charged with—she told me that the carpet bag contained eggs and clothing.
Re-examined. She arrived about half-past twelve; I was in her company
from that time till the train left Gloucester—left Cheltenham about 5 20—we were talking together—she did not seem at all excitable or irrational, but quite sensible.
CHARLES JEFFREY . I am chief clerk in the office of the Bristo Times a daily paper—prior to March 18th, I think about the 11th, we received this order for six insertions in that paper.
MARY ANN BEATTIE . I am the wife of William Beattie of Myo Road Harlesden—on Tuesday night, March 31st, about ten or a little past, I was returning home from Kilburn in an omnibus—in the omnibus I saw the prisoner with a bag, a parcel, and a child—she got out at the corner of Mayo Road—the conductor carried the bag and parcel and put them on the pavement—I got out and walked a little way across the road; turning round, I saw her hesitating, and I asked where Mayo Road she had to go—she said, "76"—I said, "If you don't mind, it is just across the road. I will carry that bag for you"—she said, "Thank you;" and I carried the bag down the Mayo Road, and she followed at my side with the baby and the parcel—at the door of 76 a young woman was standing—I put the bag down on the dooratep, and left it and the prisoner there.
Cross-examined. She did not look at all flurried or excited—I did not notice anything about her.
MARY ANN PALMER . I am the wife of Arthur Ernest Palmer, and am a daughter of the prisoner—since the middle of January this year I have been living with my husband, at 76, Mayo Road, Willesden—last year I was living with my mother, the prisoner, at Caversham—in December she was living at 45, Kensington Road, Oxford Road, Reading—on the night of March 31st, about half-past ten my mother, came to 76 Mayo Road—I occupied a room on the ground floor—I expected her—She knocked at the door; I opened it, and saw a stranger at the door, and then saw my mother—I got the carpet bag from the stranger, Mrs. Beattie but I did not recognise her—mother was carrying the child—I did not notice the parcel—I asked her to come in—she said, "No; she would not come in; she was waiting for someone coming behind"—I asked her, "Is that a child you have there?—behind—I could not see it properly, she had a shawl thrown over it—she asked me if I knew Harris of Pigots Road—that was an address that I had lived at with her—I asked her if it was Mrs. Marmon's child—she said, "Yes;" and asked if I knew Mrs. Harris, of Piggott Road, Reading; that was a road I had lived at with her—I said, "I do not know"—she told me that she was holding it for her, as she had, been to a grocer's shop on business on the other side of the way—I went into the house and into the back-yard, leaving my me her on the doorstep; I may have been there ten minutes—I then went to the sitting-room my mother was there, sitting at the table and putting a carpet-bag under the couch—I did not notice whether there was anything in it—I saw a parcel on the couch which she had undone; it was a cardboard box like this, and she gave me some child's clothes out of it; a little white frock and some shirts—this is one (produced)—she did not give me all the things in the box; but she left the box with me, and the things in it—she gave me this little vest and this fawn-coloured pelisse with the case—I had not seen her take anything out of the carpet bag—she also gave me a gammon of bacon wrapped in paper, from a paper parcel which she had, and which was on the couch when I went in—there was something in the carpet bag when I took it into the house—before I went to bed that evening my mother told me she was going to the station next day to see a person about a child she was going to take to nurse fora month, and asked me if I would go with her at 11.30—she slept on the couch that night—my bedroom was across the passage, and I slept there with my husband—she had two rooms—up to the time of going to bed I heard no sound, and saw no sign of the child who had been in my mother's arms—I had seen her carrying something, and asked her what it was, and she had told me it was a baby, and about Mrs. Harris—when I saw her afterwards she told me Mrs. Harris had got comfortable, and I saw no more of it—the next day, April lst, I went with my mother to Paddington Station, taking an oinui'ius from Harlesden—Harold, a little boy I adopted last October, when I was living with my mother at Caversham, went with us—I have adopted him for as long as he lives—when we took him to Paddington he was dressed in this fawn-coloured pelisse—the prisoner gave me the pelisse the night before, about eleven o'clock, after she came in—Harold will be two years old on June 12th—I did not; see how the child my mother brought in the night before was dressed, I did not see it undressed—my mother did not say how she had got the cardboard box with a little baby's things in, only that she had made the dress and skirts lor my little boy, Harold—little boys and girls are dressed alike up to a certain age, the dress and skirts were long enough for Harold; they all fitted him—I tried on the fawn-coloured dress, not before she gave it to me—she had not taken nny measurement of Harold that I know of—I had plenty of clothes with Harold, and had plenty still for his use; I did not want any more—it was a surprise when she gave me these little shirts and dress for Harold, which she said she had made for him—I have no children of my own—I advertised for one to adopt, and in consequence of it I got Harold—I got £12 with him—I did not calculate how much the child would cost me—the £12 is goue—I knew it would not keep him for many years—I did not merely want the ready money, I wanted the baby to adopt and keep—my husband is a commercial traveller—at Paddington, on April 1st, about twelve o'clock, we met a lady and gentleman (whom I know now to be Mrs. and Mr. Sargeant), who had a child with them, about thirteen months old—my mother went up and spoke to them, and introduced me to Mrs. Sergeant as her niece—she did not explain to me why she did that; I did not ask her—she called me her niece when I was married—we all adjourned to the refreshment-room, where some money (I did see how much) and the child were handed over to my mother—I believe Mr. Sargeant handed the money, I could not be positive—I saw a paper handed to my mother; she kept it—I did not see it; I never asked to see it; I was never told its contents—I and my mother then returned to Mayo Road with Harold and the Sargeants' child which was dressed in this plush pelisse—the child was all right when we got home, but soon after got fidgetty and cross—it was a little boy—I asked my mother not to let him cry, if she could help it, but to give him the titty, and keep him quiet—she said she would—she shook him—I don't remember that she said anything else—the child was cross and fidgetty, and crying—I don't recollect what she said, or if she said anything—my deposition was read over to me; this is my signature to it—I asked my mother to give the child the titty to keep it quiet, and she said something then, but I cannot remember what it was—my mother had no food or bottle for it—I wanted my mother to give it the indiarubber titty, just something to suck—the child did not seem hungry—my mother gave it the titty, and the child was quiet for a little while; but it broke out again, and then I gave it some bread and butter, and it was all right till about six o'clock—my mother shook the child before I gave it the bread and butter; she was cross with it, and called it a little devil, but I could not understand exactly what it was—she said she should not keep it, and called it a little devil, and passed a remark that I cannot quite remember now—she passed a remark which I understood to mean she should not keep it—we had got back about two p.m.—about six that same evening the prisoner asked me if I was going to put my little boy, Harold, to bed, and I said, "Yes"; and she said either "I will put mine, too," or "I will put this one, too"—she undid his pinafore and frock—I took Harold into the other room—as I left the room she said, "Don't be many minutes," or "Don't come in for a few minutes,"I could not he positive which—I might have been out of the room for ten or fifteen minutes—when I got back to the sitting-room the baby was lying on the couch, covered all over with her shawl—I did not see its face—I asked the prisoner if it had gone to sleep, and she said, "Yes"—I went to look at it, but she pushed me away, and said, I was not to touch him, or I should wake him up—before I went into my bedroom it had been crying—it had stopped crying a few minutes before I left the sitting-room—when I came back I did not know it was the baby on the couch, any more than it looked like the child; I only saw the shape of the child covered up with the shawl, and I did not see it anywhere else—I did not want to see it for anything particular—I did not think it peculiar for the prisoner to push me away when I went to look at it, because she is very apt to do it when I want to do anything she does not want me to do—soon after my husband came into the room—he asked if we had been to fetch the child—I said, "Yes"—he looked acrosa at the couch, and asked if that was the little nipper there, and he walked towards the couch—the prisoner told him not to go to him or touch him, because the child was asleep—just before we went to bed, between ten and eleven, I asked the prisoner if I should make a bottle of milk for the child, and the prisoner said, "No, if he wants one I can make it myself"—between 7 and 7.30 I went out with the prisoner and my husband—before going out the prisoner asked me if I could lock up her carpet bag in the box—I said, "No," and asked her what she bad in it to want it locked up—she said she had nothing in it particular, but she did not want other people in the room pulling her things about—when we went out of the room she locked the door of the sitting-room—at that time the carpet bag was under the couch, and the child was still asleep on the couch, completely covered up by the same shawl—it had been on the couch from the time I went into the room, about 6.15, till we went out, about 7 or 7.30—I had been in the room all the while—I had not noticed it move or utter a sound during that time—nobody had gone to look at it in my presence; I had not—I was in the room—I had given it some bread and butter and milk before it was put down on the couch, and it had some at tea-time when, we had our tea, before six o'clock—after six it had neither moved nor made a sound, nor had anybody looked at it—my mother, my husband, and I were out from one to one and a-half hour—we had been for a walk down the road; we did not go to any place of amusement—my mother wanted to go to Olympia—when we got back we all went into the sitting-room; the baby was still on the couch, just as we had left it—it was then about nine—the prisoner went straight up to the child, and looked at it—she did not take the shawl off; I did not notice what she did—she said, "He is still asleep; don't touch him"—when we went out there was nothing to prevent the baby from rolling off the sofa—the sofa had no sides, only an end, and was made of horsehair, and slippery—I don't think the prisoner posted a letter that night when we were out—I know nothing about a letter posted at 8.30 that night—I saw her writing a letter in the morning; I did not see to whom it was addressed—the prisoner slept that night in the sitting-room; she said she was going to sleep on the couch—my landlady offered to let her sleep with her—the prisoner said, "No"—I left her to sleep on the couch—when I left the room to go to my bedroom the baby was apparently still on the couch—the room was not locked that night, that I know of—next morning I went into the sitting-room about eight o'clock; my mother was sitting on the end of the couch—I could not see the baby—I asked where it was; she said it was all right; she did not say where it wan—it is a medium-sized room—there were chain and a table in it—I did not cast my eye round the room to see if it was on the chairs or table—I then tidied up the room; and as I was sweeping it out I noticed a parcel under the head of the couch; I could only see one end of the parcel; it looked like the shape of a child's head; it was tied up in what looked like a napkin—the rest of the parcel was like a child's body, so that the whole thing looked like a child—I asked her again what she had done with the baby—she said the baby was all right, I was not to worry about it—I did nothing with the parcel—about dinner time, that same day, my mother asked me if I had a brick—I said, "No"—she asked me if Arthur (meaning my husband) would get her cue—I said, "No; not unless he knows what you want it for"—soon after I went out to the back yard—my mother followed me out there—there were some loose bricks there—she took a brick into the sitting-room and put it under the couch; I did not see where she got the brick from—the bag and the parcel that looked like a baby were still under the head of the sofa, on the floor—on the evening of that day, about 7.20, the prisoner asked me and my husband to go to Paddington Station with her—I left the sitting-room, and went to my bedroom to get ready—when I came back to the sitting-room I noticed that the carpetbag was packed—it looked more than full, it would not close at the top; there was brown paper over the top, and the bag was tied round the centre with string:—Hooked under the sofa, and there was nothing left there; brick and parcel were both gone—the prisoner, my husband, and I left the house together, the prisoner carrying the bag—as we left the house I asked her what the neighbours would say that saw her come in with the child, and did not see her take it out again, or go out without one—she aaid I could very well make an excuse—we went by omnibus—we went to the cookshop by the side of the Crown, where the omnibuses start, and then she asked my husband if he would hold the bag while she went into the pastrycook's—at Paddington I saw ray mother into a carriage of the 9.15 train, which is express to Beading, I believe—my husband took her ticket; I did not see it—she told me she was going to Reading—after she got into the carriage someone else got into the same carriage—she got out again, and got into anpther carriage by herself—we left her before the train started—she had the bag still with her, I am sure—I had a work-basket in this sitting-room; it contained tape among other things—after my mother had gone I missed a skein of tape that I had there befor she was there—when I returned home I never saw anything more of the baby that had been brought from Paddington Station—neither of the babies was left there.
Cross-examined. In 1891 I was living with my mother in Bristol; she was confined in Gloucester County Asylum in 1891—a doctor examined her in that year, and I told him my mother tried to commit suicide by cutting her throat—she made three attempts, and I said that she was very violent—in 1893 she was sent to the Wells Asylum—she was very violent then—in 1894 she was again sent to Gloucester County Asylum, and after coming out of there sho tried to drown herself; she was taken to Bristol Hospital—in 1891, 1893, and 1894, the only thing she seemed to want to do was to com nit suicide—she said she heard voices, and she had a delusion that I was going to murder her—she threatened my life on several occasions, and once she attempted it—these fits appeared at certain times with her—in between them, as a rule, the was calm and quiet—at times she used to go off like that—during her calm moments she was very kind and affectionate—on March 31st, when she came, she seemed all right at the door, but when she was indoors she seemed very flurried—I left her at the open door—I did ask her in—I could not say whether she undressed" herself that night—I found her dressed in the morning—she did not appear to have gone to bed that night; none of her things were undone—she seemed to me not to have taken her clothes off—during the time my mother was at my house we had meals in the sitting-room—two infants came to the house—when I asked my mother, "What will the neighbours think of your bringing babies here, and going out without them?" she was perfectly quiet—she pushed me away when I wanted I to go near the bftby, and I did not attempt to go near it after the push; I was afraid of her. Q. When she is in that mental condition (you know she was confined in asylums in 1891, 1893, and 1894) is she very dangerous?—A. Yes.
MART ANN BEATTIE (Re-called). The carpet bag I carried was very beavy indeed, and seemed a solid substance: it made my hand ache carrying it.
MARY ANN PALMER (Re-examined). The gammon of bacon my mother gave me on the night of her arrival, I should say, weighed about 7 Ib. or 8 lb.—my mother has been three times in an asylum; I believe the longest time was three months; I believe that was in 1893—the others were some shorter periods—she had children to nurse between the first time she went to the asylum and 1891—I could not say about adopting any—there was trouble about one of those children—the parents came for it—she did not hand it over to them, to my knowledge—she had not got it in her possessioc—she told me she had adopted it for a friend of hers—I don't knov who the friend was I believe that was about three weeks before she went to the asylum—the parents were pressing lor their child; they were not satisfied with that account—mother had a lopted the child for herself—I believe my mother was in some trouble about it—the parents brought a police constable with them when they came; it was shortly after that that mother was sent to the asylum by her husband—the home was not broken up—I went on living there—I could not say whether she was in the asylum six weeks or two months—she then came back to the same place for about a fortnight, and then went to live elsewhere, at 144, Wells Road, Tether-down, near Bristol; after that she wont to Oxford Street, New Cut, Bristol—I could not say whether she was well till 1893; I had left home—as long as I was there she was well—I next saw her about seven weeks afterwards—I did not see her at all for that seven weeks—after that I lived with her again till 1893—she was not in good health then at times; she seemed very down*hearted and very peculiar in her manner at times—she had children to nurse or adopt between that time and 1893, when she went into the asylum again; I do not remember how many, I believe more than one; it might have been two or three; I believe it was three; I cannot be sure it was not more—I don't know whether she was paid for taking in each of those children; she never told me—I believe she had advertised; I had seen those advertisements; I believe they were like these—shortly before she went into the asylum, in 1893, the same persons who had come for their child in 1891 came again, and gave trouble about their child; my tnofher was then living at Horfield, another part of Bristol, and they brought a policeman with them—mother went out that same afternoon, and tried to drown herself; she was picked up in a ditch, near Cumberland Basin; it was on that occasion she was sent to the hospital; she remained there just over a week; that was in May, 1894; that was after she had beenin the asylum the second time—she was admitted into the asylum the day after Christmas Day (Boxing Day)—the doctors who attended her suggested her going there—I had sent for a doctor the day after those people had come, Dr. Maquoid; he had attended her betore, on and off, for a long time; he had attended her three or four weeks before—she was in the asylum then, I think, about three months—I believe at was from December 26th to January 30th; when she came out she was in her usual good health; we then went to live at Montpelier, another part of Bristol—from that time till December, 1894, she was taking in children again—I could not say whether the advertisements were still published; she never told me; I had not seen any; I did not know.
Q. What means of support had your mother other than payments received for children?—A. Nursing ladies during their confinement; no other that I knew of—I was married in May, 1894; I don't think she took in children between the time when she came out of the hospital, after attempting to drown'herself, and the time she went to the asylum; I am not sure—she told Mr. Dyer that she was going to take a couple of children, and she did have some after that—when she went into the asylum in December, 1894, she had three children in the house—she was then living at Grove Cottages, Fish Ponds, about five miles out of Bristol—my husband sent for Dr. Eden on that occasion—I believe two of those children had been obtained by advertisements, and one was born in her house—the mother was confined there, and she left the child in my mother's charge—she was a Mrs. Perrin—I believo my mother had £80 for receiving that child, to bring it up entirely as her own, to adopt it—I believe she had £30 with one of the others, and £40 with the other—I don't know where they were born—one was named Harding, the same name as mother afterwards used, and the other's name was Rawlings—they lived at Horfield, I believe, I am not positive—when mother was sent to the asylum the three children were sent to the work-house—when mother came out of the asylum I believe she went to the workhouse at Barton Begis—she came from there in June, 1895—as far as I know, she stayed there till June; then, after living a few weeks at Bristol, she joined me and my husband at Cardiff—I don't know where she lived till then—she brought one child with her to Cardiff, and she took in others—I believe we bad three at Cardiff, with the one she brought with her—that was not one of the three that she had when she went into the workhouse—it was before we went to Cardiff that she came to us at Devonport—I don't know whether she had then come out of the workhouse—she did not tell me—I had then adopted a child—I handed it over to her—I had advertised to take it in to nurse at 5s. week—I only had that one at Devonport—my mother was then living at Bristol—I could not say exactly how Jong it was after that she came to Cardiff; it might have been a month—I handed that child to my mother, because I and my husband intended to take a situation together—I had adopted the child for good—its parents' name was Jeames—it came from Wells Street, Tetherdown Eoad, Bristol—it was a girl, between five and six years old—it was about a month afterwards that my mother joined us at Cardiff—she did not bring the little girl with her—I made inquiries about it—she told me she had had a house in Bristol, and she had let it out in the usual manner, for ladies to be confined there, and one of the ladies took a fancy to the child, and she handed it over to her, and had adopted it for good—I asked mother to take care of it, and she parted with it, unknown to me, and the lady had taken it away with her; she said the lady's own child was dead; that lady's name was Johnson—I asked her for her address, and she said she was going abroad—my mother was with us at Cardiff two months—we started with one child at Caversham; one child had died; the other, she told me, she had taken to Bristol, to her parents—I did not see the parents—the first night we went to Caversham we stayed at the Clappers, and next day went to 6, Elm Villas—we stayed there about six or eight weeks—Mrs. Dyer went to London, to fetch Willie Thornton—she received him in answer to an advertisement, and adopted him; he is still alive—I don't remember the name of the place she went to, to fetch him—she had one child at Elm Villas, besides the one I brought from Cardiff, that was between three and four years old—I don't know what she had with Willie Thornton; for the other child, I believe, she had five shillings a week—I asked her what she had with Willie Thornton; she would not say; she told me it was not my business—we moved from Elm Villas to Pigot's Road—Willie Thornton came from London; she never told me where—we took the little girl with us to Pigot's Road; mother took it up to London; I did not go with her, my husband did—she came back the same day—she had no other child at Pigot's Eoad but the little girl and Willie Thornton—it was at Elm Villas that I adopted Harold;
he was the one that I took—I distinguish between what I took and what mother took—I also took a little girl at Elm Villas; I adopted it; it died when it was ten weeks old—my mother remained at Pigot's Road a fortnight only—then she went to live at Kensington Road; we went to Warminster first; we were there till a fortnight after Christmas—we then moved to 76, Mayo Road—she came up to London to see us from time to time—I did not go and see her in Kensington Road after I came to London—I saw her between the time we left Pilot's Road and our coming to London—on the occasiun of my mother's visit to me on March 31st to April 2nd this year, she had her meals with me—she wrote a letter on the morning of April 1st, and went out with me in the evening, and was about with me all day on the 2nd, and went to Paddington in the evening—I left her in the carnage alone—she was perfectly quiet and calm then.
AMELIA HANNAH SARGEANT (called at the request of MR. KAPADIA). I am the wife of Alfred Sargeant, of 50, Baling Road—in consequence of an advertisement which I saw in the Weekly Dispatch on March 15th last, I wrote a letter to Mrs. Harding, 45, Kensington Road, Oxford Road, Reading—after some correspondence, on March 25th I went to that address, and there saw the prisoner—I asked her if she was in the habit of taking in nurse children—she said, "No," she had never brought up but two children in her life, her niece at Harlesden, and a young man who was serving on board a nhip which took the place of the Camperdown in the Mediterranean—she said she had lived in Reading twenty-two years with her husband, who was a goods guard on the Great Eastern Railway—she said her name was not Harding, that she advertised in tbat name, but her name was Thomas, that they had lived in Reading twenty-two years, 'and were very much respected in Reading, and that was the reason she did not advertise in her own name—alter further conversation I arranged with her to hand a child to her for adoption, a little boy named Harry Simmonds, aged thirteen months, and to pay her £10—after further correspondence with her, I went on Wednesday, April 1st, to Paddington Station, with my husband and the little boy, and there met the prisoner and Mrs. Palmer, whom she introduced as her niece—Mrs. Palmer had charge of the child—she said his name was Harold—she was carrying the child, and said it was very ill—I should say it was from eighteen months to two years old—the prisoner told me it was a niece's child—it was dressed in white, and a fawn-coloured pelisse similar to the one produced—I believe this to be the same pelisse—it had this silk cord and the same ribbons—we adjourned to the refreshment-room, and there I paid her £5, and gave her an I.O.U. for the remaining £5, and she gave me this receipt; it is her writing in pencil on one of my husband's billheads. "Received of Mrs. A. Sargeant, £5 on account"—she signed it, "Annie Thomas," and both I and my husband also—I then handed over the little boy, Harry Simmomdf, to her, and also a parcel, plenty of clothing for it—afterwards, on April 11th, I went to the mortuary at Reading, and there saw the dead bodies of two children, a male and female—I identified the dead body of the uiale child as Harry Simmonds; I afterwards saw in the possession of the police a quantity of clothing which I had handed over with hint; some portions of it are here.
Cross-examined. The child was left in my care by its mother; I was not paid for it; I undertook to see that it was cared for, free of charge; it was the child of a friend of mine—I paid the £5 out of my own pocket to the prisoner; it was the child of Mrs. Simmonds; she was in trouble; she had obtained a situation as lady's maid, and she wanted to find a home for the child—I wrote this letter to the prisoner; it is my writing—Mrs. Simmonds was to return the money; I paid it out of my own pocket, it was my own money; I did it for the affection I had for her and the child, and she was to repay me; it was not a money transaction; it was only lent to her, trusting that she would pay me back—I did not ask for any reference from Mrs. Dyer—I do not like references; I went to see for myself what home she had—she appeared a kind person; I took her to be a kind, homely, motherly woman; she invited me down—I took some children with me; they were my own children; she invited me to bring them, if they liked to come; she told me to come when I was so disposed, to see how the little boy was going on; I intended to take the money down; she asked me to send it in a registered letter—she had a very bad cold at the time; she did not complain, but she certainly was not looking ill—in my letter I inquired how her cold was; naturally, anyone would do so.
Re-examined. I reached her house about two, or soon after, and stayed with her till about a quarter-past three; she went with me to the station—I left by the 4.23 train—she told me that the house she was living in was her own, and that she was in very comfortable circumstances—I left her thoroughly satisfied, as a person to leave the little boy with; I felt quite sure she would be kind to him—I wrote this letter, stating that I would meet her on Monday next, and that I could not bring the full cash; I could only spare £5 at present, but the rest I would bring or send—I received this reply of March 29th, stating "Of course I will have the dear little soul. I should have liked the money paid down, but I will trust you."
CHARLOTTE CULLUM . I am the wife of Albert Cullum, of 76, Mayo Road, Harlesden—Mr. and Mrs. Palmer lived in my house since January—I saw the prisoner at my house on Wednesday morning, April 1st, between eight and nine—she told me that she had slept in a chair all night in the Palmers' sitting-room—she gave me, that morning, a little pair of child's button boots—during the day I noticed a carpet bag just inside the parlour door—this is the one—there was nothing in it; it was lying carelessly on the floor—I had not heard the sound of any child, except the boy Harold—Mrs. Dyer said she had slept out—I offered her to sleep with me—I saw her again on April 2nd in the house—I went out between seven and eight that evening—the Palmers and the prisoner were there when I left; when I returned, in about ten minutes to a quarter of an hour, they were gone, and the lights were out—while the prisoner was in the house she paid me one week's rent; she took it from her purse; it was owing by the Palmers—I had seen the prisoner at the house on two previous occasions—on the first occasion, in January, she stayed at home.
Cross-examined. When I saw her on April 1st she said she had not sent the parcel, because she had been very poorly—she had promised me a parcel—she did not say what it would be; she said it would be handy for me—it was to be as a gift for my kindness to the
Palmers—I don't think she looked ill, not more than useful; she always looked pale.
Re-examined. She looked and behaved quite quietly, the same as she always had.
ALBERT CHARLES CULLUM . I am a carriagecleaner, and husband of the last witness, living at 76, Mayo Road—some time before April I had a grate moved in the kitchen; in doing that there were a number of loose bricks—I put a number of them under a rabbit hutch in my back garden—on April 1st and 2nd, as far as I knew, they were still under the hutch—the police have brought some specimens of the bricks (produced).
Cross-examined. I do not say that these are the same bricks; they are similar; they correspond very much with those I had under the hutch—those I had under the hutch had been in the fire, and burnt, and these correspond with them—I buried some of them in the garden, to support the place that my wife washed in.
Recent Posts