Swansea Murders E-Book

Geoff Brookes

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Swansea has a dangerous past. As a seaport, the town confronted the unknown on a daily basis. In this book, we explore the dark underbelly of South Wales; from the dirty, lawless docks to the narrow, festering slums of the alleyways. Little Martha Nash, Claire Phillips, Peter Moitch… all met their sad end within these streets. Even where the town meets the countryside is no safer. It is this idyllic landscape that was home to Muriel Drinkwater and Eleanor Williams, both of whom were tragically killed. Swansea is alive with the memories of its crimes; from unfortunate sailors to jealous husbands and vengeful employees, Geoff Brookes' well researched and compelling book presents a selection of some of the most famous crimes. Each case is analysed and the key facts outlined; some were closed. Many remain unresolved, and their stories linger still. You will never look at Swansea the same way again.

Leseprobe

To my mother, Eileen Brookes, and my mother-in-law, Elaine Hoplain. Thank you for everything, from all of us

CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

Introduction

Case One 1730 When Head Rules Heart…

Case Two 1761 Aiming High

Case Three 1805 The Problem with Spirits

Case Four 1832 Taken as Red

Case Five 1845 Such a Strain

Case Six 1850 ‘How Things Do Prosper’

Case Seven 1852 Gathering Limpets

Case Eight 1858 ‘A Reckless Race, Disregardful of Human Life’

Case Nine 1865 ‘Dio Vi Benedica, Come Mi Benedice Ora A Me!’

Case Ten 1872 The Good Templar?

Case Eleven 1873 And So This is Christmas, and What Have You Done?

Case Twelve 1874 Bread of Heaven

Case Thirteen 1881 ‘I Have Killed my Lily’

Case Fourteen 1884 April Fool

Case Fifteen 1885 ‘Kiss Me, Julia’

Case Sixteen 1885 Safe in the Arms of Jesus

Case Seventeen 1888 ‘I Could Not Stop Myself’

Case Eighteen 1893 When You’re in Love With a Beautiful Woman…

Case Nineteen 1899 The Price of Immorality

Case Twenty 1906 I’ll Keep Holding On

Case Twenty-one 1919 ‘I Thought You Was a Policeman’

Case Twenty-two 1929 Cold Fish

Case Twenty-three 1939 Slow Cooker

Case Twenty-four 1941 Stranger Danger

Case Twenty-five 1946 The Gun with the Perspex Handle

Finally…

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

Swansea was such a seething hotbed of crime that this could never be an exhaustive guide to our troubled past. Some significant cases still remain unexplored, taunting me still. It is a shame they didn’t quite make it, but a selection had to be made. But just a word to the perpetrators who might think they have got away with it by thus remaining unexposed. I know who you are.

The book has been compiled entirely from contemporary sources – court records, original documents and newspapers. In this way I have been able to find a voice for our people; for as far as I know, the words I have given them to speak are their own, as reported at the time.

There are so many people I need to thank, without whom this volume would have remained a vague intention, rather than reality. My family and friends, as always, have been patient and understanding.

The willingness of friends to provide remarkable and original artwork has been very moving. You can see for yourself how good they are; thank you Charlotte Wood, Ditta Szalkai, Gill Figg and Angela Warne-Payne. To be honest I envy them their talent, though Gill’s facility with anonymous letters really should be brought to the attentions of the constabulary as a matter of some urgency.

Swansea Library and Swansea Archive have been as excellent and supportive as they always are. Liverpool Registry Office dealt with my request for Andrew Duncan’s death certificate professionally and efficiently. The tragic and moving conclusion to his story has never been published before, and I am humbled by the fact that, with the help of others, I have been able to find it.

The book has taken me further afield too. I received helpful support from Berkshire Archives in Reading, where I had the opportunity to look at the records from Broadmoor Hospital. The National Library in Aberystwyth is a wonderful place, and I had the enormous privilege of looking at original court documents from the eighteenth century. It was quite a thrill. The National Archive in Kew continues to astonish me. What a wonderful place. The story of poor Kate Jackson is merely an example of all those other silent stories that lie there, waiting patiently to be revealed.

Murder? Not a nice idea. And sometimes the piling up of madness on top of cruelty and anger has been hard to deal with. But in the end this book is about the people of Swansea. I could not have written it without the strenuous efforts made by our ancestors to get drunk and attack each other, often for what in retrospect seems to be no good reason. Without their commitment to drunkenness and idiocy, this book could never have been written.

Like so many other stories here, this started on a Saturday night in Swansea.

Why am I not surprised?

Morgan Mathews came from Cardiff and was described as County Fiddler – an unusual title, which may imply that he had some kind of obligation to entertain, an important factor in this story. He had been lodging with Roger Rosser in the town for a couple of weeks. Sadly, his musical gifts do not seem to have nurtured a serene personality; he was known to be quarrelsome and to complain all the time.

On 18 October 1730 he was out drinking in John Read’s public house with a crowd of men he didn’t know. But he was convivial enough. He called for ale. It was approaching midnight and everyone was both lubricated and excitable.

But when Roger Landeg asked Morgan to play the fiddle, he seems to have refused, saying that he was not working, and anyway, he hadn’t got his instrument with him. Landeg got stroppy and called him a fool and a villain, and probably worse. I mean, what was the point of a County Fiddler if he was not prepared to fiddle? His stepson-in-law, Nehemiah Rees from Llangyfelach, got involved too.

A fight was brewing and so the landlady threw them out. They went into the entry, where they fought in the dark. After a while they spilled on to the street. Here Rees started banging Mathews repeatedly on the head with the handle of his whip.

Roger Landeg was mightily impressed. ‘God-a-mercy Miah! Well done, Miah!’ he cried. He was clearly impatient for the invention of rugby.

Soon Roger joined in, though his pals were keen to say that they had tried to stop him from doing so. Apparently family honour was at stake. And so he left Morgan Mathews with painful reminders of their family bond and traditions.

For his part Mathews, always ready to live the drama, cried out, ‘I am murdered! I am murdered! Bring a light, for the Lord’s sake!’

The fight was broken up. They took him to the brewhouse to wipe him down. He certainly seemed to have lost a lot of blood – his clothes were soaked through.

When he staggered back to Rosser’s house the following morning he was covered in blood, with his handkerchief tied around his head, ‘still concerned in liquor’. He said that Landeg had killed him, which you might think was an exaggeration since he had just walked home. Morgan took to his bed, telling Rosser that he could have fought Rees on his own, no problem, but Landeg had tipped the balance and that wasn’t fair. He had been lying on top of Rees, which had exposed him to Landeg’s brutal attentions. He had had a bit of a ‘booting’. If he had been underneath Rees it would have been better. As it was, he was beaten all over. He complained particularly about being kicked in the heart. He had contusions to the back and the scrotum.

‘I am murdered! I am murdered!’

He went off on Monday to Mr Whitney the apothecary to have his wounds dressed. He was badly beaten, but his skull did not appear fractured. They met again on Tuesday in the market, when Mathews said he was improving, and he went to be treated again on Wednesday and Thursday.

He seemed to wander around for the rest of the week, complaining to whoever would listen. When asked by a neighbour, Jane Henry, if he forgave the perpetrators, he said he forgave their souls but wanted their bodies punished. He let everyone know that he would apply for a warrant for their arrest but that he would be ready to patch up any differences if they would give him a ‘handsome treat’ and say they were sorry.

Mr Whitney later observed that the wounds were healing nicely. But this was 1730, and of course they had no way of knowing what was happening within, unseen.

Morgan Mathews was right. He had been mortally wounded.

Suddenly on Saturday, a week after the assault, he contracted a violent fever. Mr Whitney was called, along with the surgeon Rowland Richard. They found him delirious, and he had lost the power of speech. He declined rapidly and died on Sunday at 2 p.m. Perhaps there was a haemorrhage of some kind; a clot; a fracture. But unless he had been beaten again on his way home that night, then it was clear who had done it.

A prosecution was brought by Anne, Morgan Mathews’ wife. Rees and Landeg were arrested, though the latter died in prison whilst awaiting trial. Rees pleaded not guilty of murder but was found guilty of manslaughter. The medical evidence suggested that the wounds had contributed to Mathews’ death, but they were not the direct cause. He had died of a fever of some kind. Perhaps it would have happened without him being involved in a fight. Rees, for his part, prayed benefit of clergy. This was sometimes used in manslaughter cases to mitigate a possible death sentence. Originally the condemned had to read from the Bible to indicate a level of scholarship, but since psalms could be memorised, that requirement had been dropped. The condemned would be burnt or branded on the thumb. It was an option you could only choose once. When you appeared in court, you would have to flash your thumb to show that you didn’t have any previous, as they say. A bit like having points on your licence, I suppose. And no matter how painful it would have been to have been clamped down and burnt with a red-hot iron, and then in Rees’ case to face six months’ hard labour, it was better than the alternative.

At this point, the curtains on the life of 1730 are drawn. The threads that remain loose cannot now be tied together. Questions will forever remain unanswered. But you will see as we progress through the rest of our history, that the themes outlined here – of drunkenness and random violence – keep repeating themselves with depressing regularity.

Once again, our story starts with drinking. Young men, drinking until the early hours of the morning? Even in June 1761, it rarely went well.

These were servants to military officers stationed in Swansea. Richard Matthews, Evan Austin and Edward Goodwin were drinking with James Bell, from County Down in Ireland, who was servant to Captain Gordon. Their new friend was George Thomas, a labourer from Llangyfelach. The barmaid, Diana Watts, heard them and was later able to report what had gone on. Just as well. You do wonder how much they could remember themselves.

The servants were showing off, their military connections giving them thrilling access to firearms. Between them they had a couple of hand guns, some powder and lead shot borrowed from their masters, and obviously masses of bravado with which to impress a labourer from Llangyfelach. After all, it was three o’clock in the morning, they had been together for a while and there was nothing they couldn’t do. Diana was quite clear that it was George’s idea. ‘Let’s go out on the Burrows and do some shooting,’ he said. He was keen to experience the servants’ considerable prowess. So off they went, just before 4 a.m.

They started off with a piece of driftwood, to which they fastened a piece of white paper to act as a simple target, but that seemed to be a bit tame and they got bored. So Evan and James followed a bird as it swooped along the beach with their guns primed, but it wouldn’t stay still long enough for them to get a decent shot.

Then James had an idea. ‘Let’s shoot at George’s hat.’

And George said, ‘That’s a good idea.’

What a stupid thing to say.

You wouldn’t do it, would you? This was Swansea, not Switzerland, and James was no William Tell. And you just know what happened next.

I mean, be fair, he got the hat. Shot it right off. But not quite precisely enough.

(Original illustration by Charlotte Wood)

James stood about 4 yards away. He held the gun in both hands, took careful aim and shot George in the head. It was a mortal wound, gouging out a fatal patch in George’s skull 4in square and 1in deep. George had the time to cry out, ‘My God!’ before he fell down dead. Bell dropped the gun, lifted him and cradled him whilst the others ran off for help.

As they returned, they saw James disappearing into the distance. He ran across the sands, jumped a hedge, into a garden, then a hayfield, and they lost him. The knowledge that he had hit the hat was perhaps scant consolation in such circumstances.

‘It was a mortal wound’

James Bell was soon apprehended, and in court pleaded not guilty to murder, which you can understand; though he would, of course, have been bang to rights on any charge of idiocy. The charge was that it was deliberate, and they searched for a motive, for some sort of grudge, festering somewhere. But there wasn’t one. It was rank stupidity. You could see it.

He had no goods nor land, nor anything to confiscate. All the authorities had was the gun, to the value of 20s. Except it wasn’t even his.

James Bell was found guilty of manslaughter, and like Nehemiah Rees before him, prayed benefit of clergy. He escaped the gallows, but he too was branded on the hand.

You see, stupidity is timeless. But perhaps it does serve a purpose – as nature’s way of selecting those who should contribute to the gene pool. George was simply not up to the mark. But then, was James?

Although the records of this case are not complete, the basic facts are very simple. Morgan Williams was charged with murdering Margaret Phillips, his servant, on Saturday 19 October 1805.

Morgan returned home for his supper at 7 p.m. His servant, Margaret Phillips, who was forty but apparently looked more like forty-five, served him potatoes and butter and plonked it on a chair next to him. ‘Is this all the butter?’ he asked.

‘It is,’ she said, ‘and if you want any more, you can go to the dairy and get it yourself.’ Perhaps working relationships had become a little strained.

Certainly Morgan was not best pleased. But Margaret made it worse by saying that she had seen the ghost of his brother, just as some of the other servants had. Whether he had appeared to them to make an accusation about his own death, or to announce the imminent demise of another, isn’t recorded. This was Swansea, not Elsinore, and Morgan was no Hamlet, but it threw him into a rage. He called her a ‘screpy devil’. No one was sure what that meant, but he attacked her anyway.

He grabbed her, shook her violently, beat her, threw her to the ground, dragged her around and stamped on her. She screamed at another servant present, David Williams, to help her, but he was prevented by Morgan’s son, William Morgan (yes, I know it’s confusing), because she had caused much mischief in the family.

When she went quiet they lifted her into a chair. Morgan was in a ‘distraction of grief’. He called her his ‘dear little Peggy’, kissed her repeatedly on her cheek and begged her to speak to him. They pulled a quid of tobacco from her mouth and tried to force her to drink spirits, but it made no difference. She was carried upstairs over the shoulders of William Morgan, dead.

Then they started to bury the truth of what had happened even before they had buried her. Servants were intimidated and told not to speak of it; merely to say that Margaret had had a fit.

This is what they told Catherine Edwards, who came to lay out the body. She commented on the mass of bruises on Margaret’s hips, thighs, breasts and abdomen but was told that she had had a fit in a chair. She was buried on Tuesday.

However, one of the servants did speak to the constables, and an inquest was demanded. Ten days after the funeral, her body was exhumed and examined. Her bruises were immediately identified as the results of violence. They were ‘not the marks of natural corruption or previous eruptive disease’. She had been beaten and as a result had died, so the coroner, Richard Griffith, did not feel it was necessary to open the body. He had all the evidence he needed.