Cheshire Murders E-Book

Alan Hayhurst

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Some of the gruesome cases in this book are better known than others, such as the inexplicable shooting of his wife and two daughters by Lock Ah Tam in 1926 and the Gorse Hall murder in 1909, which still excites aficionados of true crime and those who like a good unsolved mystery. Others are less well known, including the mysterious murder of Mary Malpas in 1835 and the crime of Frederick George Wood in Bramhall in 1922, a classic example of the pointless murder, for little or no reward, while few outside the town have ever heard the tale of the 'Congleton Cannibal.' All manner of murder and mystery is featured here, and this book is sure to be a must-read for true crime enthusiasts everywhere.

Leseprobe

Cheshire

MURDERS

Alan Hayhurst

First published in 2006 by Sutton Publishing

The History Press

The Mill, Brimscombe Port

Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

This ebook edition first published in 2012

All rights reserved

© Alan Hayhurst, 2011, 2012

The right of Alan Hayhurst, to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

EPUB ISBN 978 0 7524 8415 0

MOBI ISBN 978 0 7524 8414 3

Original typesetting by The History Press

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Introduction

1. The Congleton Cannibal

Congleton, 1776

2. Death in the Dingle

Lymm, 1798–1901

3. Murder Mistaken?

Doddington, 1835

4. Double Murder

Smallwood, 1883

5. The Man of Bangor

Rock Ferry, 1886

6. ‘Murder Lane’

Crewe, 1890

7. The Gorse Hall Mystery

Stalybridge, 1909

8. The Jilted Boyfriend

Macclesfield, 1915

9. The Philanderer

Wallasey, 1917

10. The Loser

Bramhall, 1922

11. The Chinese Mystery

Birkenhead, 1925

12. A Farmhouse Tragedy

Alderley Edge, 1926

13. Death across the Dee

Chester, 1928

Bibliography

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author wishes to thank the following for their help in the researching of this book: Janet Easner and Philip Coops, who were kind enough to share with me their thoughts about the Mary Malpas case; Fiona Orr, who kindly lent me her precious copy of George Chapman, in the Notable British Trials series; Anne Loader for her help with illustrations and permission to quote from one of her publications; John Moffatt of the Friends of Flaybrick for his invaluable help with the Lock Ah Tam case and Fa Chen, Chairman of the British and Chinese Children’s Society, for his translation of the tombstone inscription; Terry Harding, who introduced me to Christine Clough of the Friends of Gorse Hall and for her enthusiastic assistance; Alan and Marie Elmer; Stewart Evans, Sarah Bryce, Helen Bradbury, Alison Miles and the team at Sutton Publishing; and the staff at the National Archives, Kew, the Liverpool and Chester Record Offices, the Congleton Museum, Lymm Library and Tameside Local Studies & Archive Centre, who were generous with their time. If I have left anyone out, I apologise, but you know who you are.

As ever, I owe a considerable debt to my wife, who once again put up with my virtual absence for a year, cloistered in the office upstairs, and who made countless cups of coffee and refrained from complaining about the state of the lawns.

INTRODUCTION

The county of Cheshire has a long and honourable history and like many others has changed its boundaries frequently over the years, although all the cases in this book have a real connection with the county. Mainly agricultural, there are few large centres of population, which at first sight makes it a poor subject for a true crime history; but as I carried out my research, I quickly came to realise that Sherlock Holmes was correct when he told Dr Watson, ‘It is my belief, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys of London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.’

Some of the cases in this book are better known than others, such as the inexplicable shooting of his wife and two daughters by Lock Ah Tam in 1926 and the Gorse Hall murder of 1909, which still excites aficionados of true crime and those who like a good unsolved mystery. Lesser-known cases include the mysterious murder of Mary Malpas in 1835 (my theory about who really did kill young Mary at Doddington has, I think, not been seen in print before) and the crime of Frederick George Wood in Bramhall, 1922, a classic example of the pointless murder, for little or no reward. Finally, few outside the town have ever heard the tale of the ‘Congleton Cannibal’.

In order to ensure that the facts are as accurate as possible, I have spent many hours in the National Archive at Kew and the Record Offices of Chester and Liverpool, poring over depositions, transcripts and other documents, and struggling to read the pages of contemporary newspapers, many of which boast print sizes so small that they defy all but the largest magnifying-glass. Lastly, I have tried not to put words into the mouths of the people concerned, unless I have been able to confirm them from sources mentioned above.

1

THE CONGLETON CANNIBAL

Congleton, 1776

The church of St Peter, Congleton, situated on a ridge to the south-west of the modern town centre, is a fine example of eighteenth-century design. Almost opposite, a small street named Priesty Fields runs down to a valley, in the bottom of which is a small stream known as the Howty Brook. A path runs along the banks of the brook, connecting Congleton to the village of Astbury, just over a mile away, where stands the church of St Mary, historically the mother church of Congleton and one of the finest parish churches in Cheshire. The locals have used the Howty Brook path to travel between the two townships for centuries and the path is still there today, in places overarched by trees and no doubt looking much as it did 200 years ago. The brook itself seems innocuous, being much overgrown by vegetation, but in bad weather it was formerly prone to flooding causing, as Robert Head wrote in his Congleton Past and Present, ‘much destruction of property’.

Among the parishioners of Astbury St Mary’s in 1776 was Samuel Thorley, aged 52, a large, rough man of limited intelligence and short temper, whom the local people preferred to leave very much alone if they could. A newspaper of the time, the Chester Courant, said of him, ‘In general, he was looked upon as a man of furious temper and dangerous to affront, or banter.’

Thorley worked as gravedigger at St Mary’s, and to eke out his meagre existence he was also a part-time butcher in Congleton. He was said to take a great delight in his butchering trade and it was rumoured that he had also developed a taste for raw meat, although this could have had more to do with his lack of money than any appetite for blood. On occasion he was known to sleep rough, but when he could afford the rent he lodged with Hannah Oakes, a widow who lived in a small, tumbledown thatched cottage near the Howty Brook.

On Saturday 23 November 1776 a local farmer, Newman Garside, was herding his cows into a field alongside the brook and, having settled them, walked down to the stream to enjoy a pipe of his favourite tobacco. Two young boys were with him, and one of them, 13-year-old William Barrett, noticed what appeared to be a woman’s cloak, made of blue material, floating in an eddy near the bank of the stream.

Path between Congleton and Astbury. (Author)

He pointed this out to Garside, who encouraged the lad to risk a ducking and retrieve the cloak, which he did with some difficulty. Hidden underneath it in the water was another garment, which young William also retrieved. Dumping both pieces of cloth onto the bank, he stretched them out. The second piece, yellow in colour, bore several reddish stains; and although these meant nothing to the boy, his employer thought he knew a bloodstain when he saw one and examined the garment closely. Satisfied that he was right, and seeing two farm-hands in the adjoining field, he gestured for them to come over.

Humphrey Newton and John Beswick ran down to where Garside stood, holding the wet cloth. ‘It looks like blood’, he said, rubbing his fingers against the stains. The two farm-hands were not immediately convinced, but urged on by Garside they joined the two boys in searching the area and in a short time they had discovered quite a collection of articles, including a cap; a black ribbon; a small bag, which held a half-eaten brown loaf, an old tobacco box, a thimble and a pair of scissors; two song sheets; a sewing bag containing needles and thread; and a woman’s petticoat. Suddenly, John Beswick exclaimed in horror as he stared into the stream and saw what appeared to be human limbs floating in the water.

Garside immediately sent the two boys scurrying to fetch the local constable, John Martin, who soon came running down to the brook followed by a crowd of curious villagers. Once Garside had stuttered out his story, Martin organised a more thorough search, which quickly produced more human remains, including a head that was obviously female and a woman’s breast. Whoever had cut up the dead girl’s body had made a thorough job of it; but even so, the remains were soon identified as belonging to Annie Smith, a girl in her early twenties. Annie scraped a living by selling ballad sheets, which were popular as a means of entertainment at the time, and also, it was rumoured, was not averse to selling herself to those who could pay a few coppers for the privilege.

The following day, Sunday, the remains were retrieved from a local barn where they had been placed overnight, and the local inhabitants crowded round to view the grisly findings, which even with decomposition rapidly setting in were still recognisable. A grave was dug at Congleton St Peter’s and the remains were hastily interred, after which an inquest was held and promptly suspended sine die.

A local weaver, Thomas Cordwell, while walking near the Howty Brook that morning had passed three men talking, one of whom he had recognised as Samuel Thorley. The gravedigger and part-time butcher had appeared agitated, and Cordwell had heard him insisting in a loud voice to his companions that he had known nothing about the murder until the body parts were discovered. This set Cordwell thinking; and he was still pondering the subject when he arrived home for lunch, where his wife was waiting to tell him the latest gossip.

St Mary’s churchyard, Astbury, where Samuel Thorley acted as gravedigger. (Author)

The Howty Brook, Congleton. (Author)

The whole town was agog with the events of the past two days and the popular view placed Samuel Thorley at the top of the list of suspects for the terrible crime, although, as is usually the case with gossip, facts were scarce and most of it was tittle-tattle and rumour. It was really nothing more than Thorley’s bad temper and his rough skill with a butcher’s knife that had prompted the villagers to point the finger of suspicion at him, but Cordwell continued to mull over the morning’s events, becoming more sure in his own mind as the day went on that Thorley had indeed got something to do with the death of Annie Smith. He decided to look for Thorley, in order to examine him for traces of blood. However, the suspect was nowhere to be found, so together with a friend, Thomas Elkin, Cordwell went back to the Howty Brook. While walking along the bank, they saw what appeared to be bloodstains on a stile over a pathway that led to Hannah Oakes’s cottage. Hannah was standing at her door as the two men approached and they stopped to tell her about the bloodstains. The old woman replied by saying that for the past five days Thorley had been lodging with her. On the evening of the murder, he had arrived home wearing his butcher’s apron, in which he was carrying some meat that he claimed had been given to him in exchange for his butchering services, when a pig belonging to a local farmer had died suddenly. He was soaked through and in reply to his landlady’s questioning explained that he had fallen into the Howty Brook on his way home, but luckily had been able to prevent the meat from being swept away by the swollen stream.

Thorley had asked the old woman to boil the meat immediately, but Hannah had already prepared something for the evening meal and had stubbornly declined to do any more cooking that day, despite Thorley’s obvious displeasure.

The next evening, 21 November, Thorley brushed the old woman’s objections aside and boiled the meat himself, Mrs Oakes commenting that it looked a bit ‘off’ to her and that she would eat none of it. Her lodger sat down at the table with a bowl of the meat in front of him and started to wolf it down, but he had barely got through the first mouthful when he rushed to the door and was violently sick outside. Returning, he told her brusquely to get rid of the rest of the meat as it was unfit, but despite her own initial misgivings and Thorley’s sickness, Mrs Oakes could not bear to see ‘good’ food thrown away and she decided to boil some of the meat for fat, keeping the rest of it in the cold oven. It beggars belief that Hannah should have kept the remaining pieces to eat later, especially since the previous boiling had obviously not prevented the meat from rotting, but it has to be remembered that in the eighteenth century rotten meat was the norm for most poor people, who had to manage with whatever food they could scavenge.

Now thoroughly alarmed, Thomas Cordwell asked to see what was left of the meat and, to his horror, noticed that one piece looked remarkably like a human calf. Hannah Oakes’s face turned ashen. ‘He told me it was pork!’ she cried. The old woman was more than willing for Cordwell to take the meat away and he immediately took it to the police, who called in a doctor to examine it further. The doctor had no doubt that this was human flesh, and matched the pieces that had already been found.

The inquest on Annie Smith was hastily resumed and this new evidence was put before the court, Mrs Oakes then testifying that Thorley had told her that he was going to pick up the pay that was owing to him and was going to Leek, some 10 miles away, claiming, ‘They are laying the charge of murder on me.’ This was enough to induce the jury to bring in a verdict of murder against Thorley and a further search was made, the fugitive eventually being discovered in a cottage at School Lane, Astbury. Constable Martin promptly arrested him and took him off to the cells at Congleton Town Hall, from where he was taken next day to Chester, to await trial.

In those days, judges visited the county only twice a year, and so the unfortunates on remand had often to wait anything up to six months in the dripping wet cells underneath the Chester Castle walls, with little light and no heat. Although there were two beds in each cell, there could be five or six prisoners to share them, so that three or four often had to sleep on the stone floor. No doubt Samuel Thorley, at this stage legally innocent until proved guilty, used his weight and his rough ways to ensure that he was one of the fortunate two with a bed!

The trial took place before Mr Justice Moreton on 3 April 1777. Thorley was apparently overcome by his position: understandably, four months’ incarceration had done nothing for his physical and mental state and he made little or no attempt to put up a defence, being unable, according to the law of the day, to give evidence on his own behalf under oath. The jury had no difficulty in finding him guilty, and he was sentenced to be hanged and then displayed in chains on the gibbet. The sentence was carried out on 10 April and a month later the tarred and manacled corpse was exhibited near Priesty Fields for the amusement of the community, who took the opportunity to have a field day, the boys from the local Grammar School being given a special half-holiday to view the spectacle!

The Chester Courant reported that Thorley had shown ‘no remorse for his terrible crime and met his death with indifference’. In the local taverns, the inhabitants of Congleton regaled themselves for many weeks afterwards with tales of the ‘Congleton Cannibal’; there were even some who claimed to have purchased pieces of ‘pork’ from the executed man.

More than 100 years later, Robert Head noted in his Congleton, Past and Present, a valued copy of which is kept in the Congleton Museum, that ‘Samuel Thorley, a butcher’s follower at Congleton, was executed at Chester for the murder of Ann Smith, a ballad singer aged 22’, and went on to say, ‘It will never be known what led to the horrible fate of Ann Smith.’ However, Head does venture to suggest that the young ballad-singer had stolen a knife from Thorley, which he had used to kill her after chasing her along the banks of the stream.

In the Register of Burials for St Peter’s Church, possibly many years later, someone wrote after the name of the dead girl, ‘A woman that was murdered by Samuel Thorley’.

St Peter’s, Congleton, where Annie Smith lies in an unmarked grave. (Author)

2

DEATH IN THE DINGLE

Lymm, 1798–1901

The church of St Mary stands on an elevated position above the township of Lymm, a few miles from the bustling market town of Altrincham. The rector in 1797 was the Revd Peter Egerton Leigh, who was also the Archdeacon of Salop and a member of an old and respected family in the area. Down the hill, a few hundred yards away from the church, was the rectory, a substantial black and white house in which Egerton Leigh lived with his wife, Theodosia, and which was perched on the side of a deep ravine known locally as ‘The Dingle’. This valley was well planted with specimen trees, through which tumbled a lively stream emerging at the ‘Lower Dam’, which today still makes a pleasant feature in the centre of Lymm village, only yards away from the ancient Market Cross.

Egerton Leigh lived in some style, and was able to employ several servants including a butler, John Thornhill, a popular young man in the village, born in the Cotswolds in 1769. John was a tall, good-looking young man, proud of his position, who always took great pains to dress well. However, he was not over-endowed with brains and could be inclined to violence if people did not offer him the respect to which he felt he was entitled. He had been at the rectory for some seven years and was engaged to be married to Mrs Egerton Leigh’s maid, Rebecca Clark, a liaison which met with the wholehearted approval of his employers.

On the face of it, John and his Rebecca had a lot to look forward to – secure, relatively well-paid jobs, good accommodation and a certain position in the local community which could stand them in good stead, should they ever decide to move on. It is therefore a puzzle why, in the spring of 1797, John should have allowed himself to jeopardise all this by getting involved with a local woman, Sally Statham. Sally took in washing to make ends meet and had two children, a son John, aged 13, and a much younger daughter. Additionally, she was twenty years older than Thornhill and was described locally as ‘large and lusty’, a description that fitted her to a tee.

The old cross at Lymm, which John Thornhill would have passed many times. (Author)

Lymm church and Upper Dam. (Author’s collection)

It was not possible to keep such a liaison secret in the small community, especially when the rector’s butler enjoyed such a high profile, and rumours soon began to circulate. In the early summer, the rector, his family and the servants went to Lichfield, where Egerton Leigh had church duties to perform, and by the time they returned, in October, the news was out that Sally was pregnant and that John Thornhill was the father. One of Rebecca’s ‘friends’ could not wait to tell her the news as soon as she returned, and the poor girl, overcome with shame and the possible loss of her fiancé, faced up to Thornhill and a terrific row ensued. Thornhill denied being the father of Sally’s child and said that the best way to sort things out would be for the two of them to confront Statham after church on the following Sunday. This they did, going to her house and insisting that they should come in to discuss the matter. To Rebecca’s relief, Sally denied that John was the father of her child or that he had been having an affair with her. The couple then left; although Rebecca might not have been feeling so pleased if she had known that her John had already seen Sally earlier in the day and had had a long and earnest conversation with her.

However, this was not the end of the matter. Sally had lied to get herself temporarily out of an awkward confrontation, but afterwards could not resist boasting that Thornhill was indeed the father of her soon-to-be-born baby and consequently the rumours began to circulate again. This put the young man in a very awkward spot, for if he were to be named as the father, both Sally and Rebecca could sue him for breach of promise, and in addition he would be forced by the parish to support the baby and its mother. Ultimately, the scandal would result in dismissal from his position at the rectory, and his chances of getting another job with the same pay and prospects were virtually nil.

Had he kept calm and denied Sally’s story, he might just have got away with it. There was no way in which paternity could be ascertained in those days, and Statham had a certain reputation among the young men of the town which might have been sufficient to cast doubt on any claims that she had made. However, time was short and John did not relish another angry row with his fiancée. He discussed the matter with his friend John Parr, a gardener at the rectory, who gave him the benefit of his advice: ‘I would give her a few pounds and send her back to her own parish!’

On 5 January 1798, Thornhill arranged to meet Sally in The Dingle, a place that would afford them some privacy while they discussed ways out of their joint dilemma. Statham, who was now less than four weeks from delivering her baby, was eager in the extreme to have things settled, and, to her mind, the simplest and most effective solution would be for Thornhill to marry her immediately.

This was not exactly what John had in mind, and whatever discussions took place by the waterside resulted in the badly beaten body of Sally Statham being flung into the stream, where it was discovered floating in the Lower Dam the following day. The body was examined by two doctors from nearby Knutsford, who were of the opinion that Sally had been dead, or nearly so, when she was thrown into the water and that wounds to her head had been caused by blows from a hammer. They also commented on the signs of imminent childbirth, the fact of which was in any event now common knowledge in Lymm. Thornhill was summoned before the rector, who demanded to know what had happened and why some of his clothing appeared to be bloodstained. The butler’s first story was that he had gone into the yard to drive off some pigs and had fallen over the cinders, but as this did not satisfy his employer he changed his tale and claimed that he had fallen in the dark when going to the privy while carrying a large burning coal to light his way.

This account met with no better reception than the first, and the rector made it clear that he knew the truth of the matter. Thornhill sobbed, ‘Nobody saw me. How can they hurt me?’, and pleaded with the rector to hide him. ‘That I cannot do, John’, said his employer, and walked away.

The now terrified Thornhill demanded to see Mrs Egerton Leigh, and it is said that when she clapped eyes on him the fact of his guilt stood out like a beacon and she begged him to give himself up, while he in turn begged her to give him the chance to escape. ‘Nobody saw me’, he repeated, but to no avail. Realising that he was in more danger as the minutes went by, he decided to make a run for it, but he was too well known in the area and before nightfall he had been caught and detained overnight at the Spread Eagle Hotel.

The security arrangements at the hotel evidently left a lot to be desired as Thornhill managed to escape his captors after breakfast next morning. However, it was not long before he was captured again and deposited in the far more effective cells at Chester Castle.