The Moat Farm Mystery E-Book

M W Oldridge

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Samuel Herbert Dougal was intelligent, talented, and the recipient of a military medal. Outwardly, he seemed to embody all that Victorian England valued most. But he was also a career criminal whose appetite for sex and money propelled him through scandal after scandal; through the courts, prisons and asylums; and from woman to vulnerable woman. In 1903, the unexplained disappearance of Dougal's latest inamorata, a wealthy spinster named Miss Holland, began to excite public speculation. A tireless hunt for the missing lady commenced, but, having been arrested on a sample charge of forgery, Dougal simply decided to wait it out. Meanwhile, on the outside, his real wife, Sarah, who had been the beneficiary of Dougal's schemes over the course of a decade, had her own plans to escape official scrutiny. Would Miss Holland's whereabouts be discovered? And who, if anyone, would be held to account for her disappearance?

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Introduction and Acknowledgements

Foreword

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Bibliography

Notes

INTRODUCTION AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

THE MOAT FARM Mystery was one of the most notable criminal affairs of the early years of the twentieth century, but this book is the first to be devoted entirely to the matter since a publication called the Trial of Samuel Herbert Dougal, which was issued during the inter-war period. In the years that followed, the case rather faded from view, and, when it did attract factual coverage, it did so chiefly in essay-length pieces, often printed in crime anthologies, and very few of these renditions relied on any original research. The turning points of the Moat Farm case ossified into legend as the story was repeated, and repeated again. This book revisits some of the accretions of Moat Farm lore, reexamining them from a fresh perspective.

In 1928, the Trial of Samuel Herbert Dougal was merely the latest work in the blossoming Notable British Trials series published by William Hodge of Edinburgh. Two earlier series – Notable Scottish Trials and Notable English Trials – had been merged in 1921 and, in addition to providing court transcripts of the famous criminal actions of the Victorian and Edwardian periods – those featuring the great Hawley Harvey Crippen, Dr Pritchard, William Gardiner, Florence Maybrick, et al – the series extended back to cover historical crimes – the trial of Mary, Queen of Scots, the Bounty Mutineers, the trial of King Charles I, and so on. Best of all, with each transcript came illustrations reproduced on high-quality, in-bound plates, timelines, appendices containing contextual material, and introductions by, as it were, guest editors. Some of these remain remarkable for their intelligence and perspicuity. It is, I suppose, possible to understand the legal world of the early 1900s without having to read Donald Carswell’s introduction to the Trial of Ronald True, or Eric R. Watson’s introduction to the Trial of George Joseph Smith, but it would seem unfortunate to deny oneself the experience in either case. Occasionally, the stellar quality of the material which the Notable British Trials series provided would have real-time effects: William Roughead’s Trial of Oscar Slater was instrumental in introducing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to this famous miscarriage of justice. Conan Doyle would later play a central role – not least financially – in having Slater’s conviction overturned.

The editor of the Trial of Samuel Herbert Dougal was Fryniwyd Tennyson Jesse (1888–1958). Jesse was one of a handful of female editors of the Notable British Trials series – others included Winifred Duke and Helena Normanton, whose names ought to be known to anyone with a passing interest in the true-crime literature of the mid-twentieth century. A great-niece of the famous poet, and with a sparkily independent personality, Jesse investigated the darkness of the soul in several introductions for Hodge’s series, and in many other works of fiction and non-fiction of her own: in addition, she had been a war correspondent during the First World War, reaching Antwerp by the late September of 1914. She was twenty-five years old, and the only female journalist at the front line at the time.

In the late twenties, Jesse set exceptionally high standards for subsequent writers on the Moat Farm Mystery with her introduction to the Trial of Samuel Herbert Dougal. She had, obviously, inherited some of her great-uncle’s literary sensibilities: as an encapsulation of the perverse character of her subject, Jesse’s description of Dougal as possessed of ‘some of the tastes attributed to the more dissolute Roman emperors’ defied all competition then, and, I think, still does today. The memorably ‘clayey, lumpy girls’ of Dougal’s subsequent legend – they appear, on their bicycles, in almost every run-through of the Moat Farm case – originated, at least under this description, with Jesse. As an editor of insight and sensitivity, she is practically peerless even among those associated with the Notable British Trials series; her introduction to the Trial of Rattenbury and Stoner, which was written a few years later, remains essential reading for any student of crime. Here, Jesse delineates the true scale of the bridgeless disconnect between fantasy and reality upon which murder sometimes throws its awful spotlight, and the piece serves as a little distillation of Jesse’s genius. When, subsequently, I refer to Jesse – ‘Jesse says this’, ‘Jesse suggests that’, and so on – it is to her introduction to the Trial of Samuel Herbert Dougal that I allude. Priced at 10s 6d upon publication in 1928, the Trial of Samuel Herbert Dougal is now available second-hand and in decent (but not perfect) condition for, typically, about £20 or £30, and, if anything you see in this book stimulates any further curiosity about the Moat Farm Mystery, I can only suggest that, to feed it, you obtain Jesse’s work, to the surpassing aesthetic and intellectual qualities of which I can only aspire.

I have been lucky to have received the generous support of many people in writing The Moat Farm Mystery. It started out as an accident – I grew up in Ware, a small town in Hertfordshire with a happy history of brewing and drinking. Samuel Herbert Dougal had, for a while, been the licensee at one of Ware’s many public houses and, knowing nothing in particular about the case, but intrigued by the connection, I asked my parents to find out which one. They did – they had both recently retired, and it kept them busy – and gradually my interest in Dougal’s eccentric story deepened. Besides my parents, I have the honour to thank the following people for their various contributions: Joan Borrowscale, Susan Collier, Stewart Evans, Nicola Guy, Cate Ludlow, Hazel Miller, Matilda Richards, and Neil Storey. The staff of the archives and museums which I have visited have been invariably helpful – countless other people have listened to me telling them about the case, or answered the occasional unsolicited enquiry by email, without, perhaps, betraying their true feelings, and, for this indulgence, I am thankful. In addition, Nick Connell, who has helped and encouraged me throughout the process, was kind enough to agree to write the foreword.

But this book is dedicated to the memory of Nick Culpeper, who died in February 2011 without seeing this book in print. Nick was the Moat Farm expert sans pareil, and lived in Newport, in north-west Essex, a few miles from the infamous farm itself. He had conceived of an interest in the Moat Farm Mystery in about 1980, when he worked in Heffers bookshop in Cambridge. He was asked by a friend of his to obtain a copy of Jesse’s book; he did so, glanced through it, obtained a second copy, and embarked on his own enquiries. He visited the farm in the early 1980s when it was up for sale, introducing himself to the estate agent as a ‘Dougal ghoul’. He was allowed in to look around anyway, and the estate agent admitted that they had been expecting a few tourists, of which Nick was the first. In the meantime, Nick fastened on to local rumours – eighty years after the event – which described Dougal’s habits, his acquaintances, his sex life, and so on. Nick pointed out to me the building in Newport, once a pub, in which Dougal purportedly drank; he showed me the yard in which Dougal parked his steam-car; he told me of local people who claimed, for better or worse, to be related to Dougal by illegitimate connection.

Nick gradually obtained an extensive Moat Farm archive, and his instinct to collect drove him to seek out books and magazines which mentioned the case. These he added to the bookshelves which lined the walls of his cottage, where his interests competed constantly for space: the Moat Farm here, the A6 Murder there, Jack the Ripper there, and, there, there and there, Aleister Crowley and his coterie of black magicians and hangers-on. Crowley had been fascinating Nick since the 1960s, although he did not subscribe to the Beast’s exclusive philosophical principles: in fact, he had become interested in the man’s writings after being advised that they were notoriously difficult to understand. Over forty years, Nick’s unmatched collection grew to include a number of books from Crowley’s own library, for example, and who-knows-how-many scarce and unique editions otherwise.

An avid bibliophile, Nick would occasionally ‘customise’ his books, unless they were of very obvious intrinsic value – for me, his customised edition of Jesse’s Trial of Samuel Herbert Dougal assumes its own significance. The first edition of Jesse’s book had contained, on one of its plates, a portrait of Mr Justice Wright, but it was soon realised that the image used was, in fact, a photograph of the wrong Mr Justice Wright. The plate was omitted from subsequent editions, but Nick obtained a photograph of the correct individual, and tipped it into his second edition copy. He particularly enjoyed the idea that the wrong Wright had sneaked into Jesse’s first print, and that his adapted second-edition would be the only one to show the right Wright. Nick declined to write on the Moat Farm himself – nothing longer, at any rate, than the occasional article in the village magazine – although he was uniquely qualified to do so. He felt, quite unjustifiably, that he would be unable to do a good job.

Shortly before Christmas 2010, Nick emailed me to say that he had ‘something I need to talk to you about in the near future’. When we spoke on the phone later that day, he told me that he had been recovering from cancer when I had first met him, and that he had now been advised by his doctor that the illness had returned, and that no treatment was possible. He expected to die in two or three months, and asked me to visit him in order to take possession of his Moat Farm collection. I visited him a few days after Christmas – snow lay on the Essex fields, and, in his cottage, Nick sat on his sofa trying to warm himself on a small heater; in truth, the room was warm, but Nick’s body had stopped feeling it. He looked quite ill, but his humility, and his stoic sense of cosmic balance, had not deserted him. He was well supported by friends and neighbours, whom he disliked troubling, and whose assistance he received gratefully and modestly. As for his doctor’s prognosis, Nick said that this was just ‘one of those things’.

I spoke to him once more, on the telephone, in January 2011. He told me that he had stopped going to the hospital – Addenbrooke’s, in Cambridge – because they could not really do anything for him. He had recently discovered a few things which had been omitted from the Moat Farm collection he had passed on to me, and, in spite of his circumstances, he made arrangements for these items to be sent to me in the post. He told me that he was ‘a great believer in things being in the right place’.

A little less than three weeks later, Nick died. I was invited to attend the funeral, and the gathering afterwards at the Fleur de Lys in Widdington, one of Nick’s favourite local pubs. I was able to make it to the gathering – so were, probably, a hundred other people, a mark of Nick’s popularity. Rarely can such events have reflected their subject’s joie de vivre so precisely. From the bar, a weird visage stared out at the guests – it was a cake with Crowley’s face on it, and the speeches consisted in part of some ribald poetry of which Nick was especially fond, and then came the ritual disposal of a pint of a certain brand of ale, not favoured by Nick, in the lavatory, ‘back where it came from’. I knew Nick less well, I suppose, than many of the other attendees, but well enough to be aware that his sense of humour had not died with him. Stories were told of Nick’s younger days, when, in the sixties, in a house built on a roundabout in Cambridge, and with the top-volume Rolling Stones LPs irritating the neighbours, he would mark the arrival of the police on the doorstep with, pretty much, an invitation to the officers to either join in or stop spoiling the fun. The gathering at the Fleur de Lys made sense of Nick’s approach to life – and death, too – and there was, as he would no doubt have wished, much joy expressed by those touched by his generosity and effervescent spirit.

When I last saw Nick, I promised him that I would dedicate my Moat Farm book to him – I wasn’t in contract at that time, but I had brought together what I thought was an increasingly workable manuscript; I believed that I foresaw its publication, and could reasonably be confident in making the promise. He seemed pleased by the idea, although it was obvious that he would never see the book itself. It is, therefore, a privilege to be able to dedicate this book to Nick’s memory, and I am grateful, and will remain grateful, to him for his interest, encouragement, and kindness. I hope he would have approved.

M.W. Oldridge

October 2011

Foreword

IN 1928 THE barrister Helena Normanton suggested the possibility of a criminological hierarchy. ‘Criminology,’ she mused,‘has its own grim forms of monarchy; and if criminals selected Murder Kings, Dr Crippen would easily rank among the first half-dozen candidates for the throne.’ Another contender was surely Samuel Herbert Dougal. The Moat Farm Murderer would be no mean pretender. Unlike Dr Crippen, who at least had the virtue of good manners, Dougal was a man with no redeeming features whatsoever.

Samuel Dougal overshadowed most of his felonious Victorian and Edwardian contemporaries. He rode roughshod through an era when the most infamous criminals attained a celebrity status, which in many cases has survived to this day. This was not only because of the horrific nature of their crimes and subsequent trials with the ever-present threat of a death sentence. The extraordinary personalities of the murderers were equally responsible for their enduring fame.

As a man Dougal is simultaneously compelling and repellent. H.L. Adam, a veteran crime journalist and true crime author, considered that in his forty-year career, Dougal was ‘the most remarkable criminal I ever had anything to do with.’ Oft-repeated tales of him offering naked cycling lessons to country wenches in the muddy fields surrounding his Essex farm were most likely false. However, when Dougal’s past eventually caught up with him and his antecedents became widely known, crowds flocked to the Moat Farm in their thousands to view the scene of his final sensational crime.

In the course of twenty-one years of reasonably successful military service, Sergeant Samuel Dougal of the Royal Engineers had served in Wales, Ireland, the Isle of Wight, Canada and all over England. He had survived two frequently betrayed wives and a dose of syphilis. Honourably discharged and surprisingly with testimonies of his good character, Dougal soon discovered that he was not cut out for honest employment in Civvy Street.

A spell as the guv’nor of the Royston Crow pub in Ware, Hertfordshire, resulted in a suspicious conflagration followed by an insurance investigation and trial for arson at the Assizes. Within the smouldering shell of the Royston Crow was found an extraordinary document. Dougal had applied for the post of hangman and a singed letter from the Home Office inviting Dougal for an interview had survived the fire.

It seems that Dougal was fortunate to have been found not guilty of arson, but the trial marked the beginning of regular appearances in various criminal courts. There was to be an appearance at the Oxfordshire Quarter Sessions for theft, forgery charges heard at the Old Bailey, an affiliation order at the Saffron Walden Petty Sessions and ultimately his murder trial at the Essex Assizes.

Besides a few brief stints in vaguely defined jobs provided by a supportive brother, and as a woefully inadequate farmer and guest house keeper, Dougal never really worked again. Stripped of his army pension for his criminal activities, Dougal determined to avoid gainful employment by exploiting and fleecing lonely and emotionally vulnerable women. His other goal in life was to satisfy his relentless sexual drive with almost every woman he came into contact with. Dougal’s remarkable stamina and vitality would never desert him and he left a string of illegitimate children in his wake.

Camille Holland was an ideal target for Dougal. A chaste spinster, sixty years of age, she was a woman of independent means after receiving a substantial legacy from an aunt. Still pining for a long-lost nautical fiancé who drowned at sea, she dreaded a bleak future as a guest house resident, slowly declining alone in genteel anonymity. All Miss Holland wanted was ‘someone to look after me’, and so, for want of a more circumspect plan, she placed an advert in a newspaper seeking a husband.

Tragically Samuel Dougal read the plea and Camille was powerless to resist his dubious, but undeniable earthy charms. Posing as a widower, Dougal deftly shed his tangled past and persuaded Miss Holland to masquerade as his wife at Coldhams Farm, soon to be renamed Moat House Farm on the outskirts of the small west Essex village of Clavering. Here it was business as usual for Dougal. The domestics were instantly seen as fair game for sexual harassment, while every effort was made to drain the wealth of his unfortunate inamorata. Then, on 19 May 1899, the couple were seen driving away from the farm in a trap. Dougal returned alone and instructed his farm labourers to fill in a nearby drainage ditch.

There was an inevitability that Samuel Dougal’s life would end on the gallows. Just as there was always the cocaine bottle for Sherlock Holmes, there was always the rope for Dougal. First the unsuccessful attempt to become a hangman. Then, when serving time at Pentonville Prison, he made a failed suicide attempt by hanging, resulting in his being declared insane and transferred to Cane Hill Asylum. Finally the fatal drop at the hands of executioners William Billington and John Ellis at Chelmsford Prison.

The Moat Farm Mystery is not only a case study of the infamous Moat Farm Murder, but a detailed biography of Samuel Dougal that seeks to explain his motives and remarkable character. It is the first full study of the crime since the 1928 Notable British Trials volume by F. Tennyson Jesse. Since then, it has become a popular choice for authors of true crime anthologies, but these add little if anything to our knowledge of the case and its wicked perpetrator.

While M.W. Oldridge has graciously acknowledged his debt to the Notable British Trials volume on the Dougal case and the quality of its contents, his book is by far the more complete and absorbing work. Starting from scratch, he has thoroughly and systematically scrutinised the surviving contemporary records of the police, Home Office, courts, War Office and other official files held at the National Archives.

The County Record Offices of Hertfordshire and Essex yielded valuable documentary evidence. Printed sources in the form of newspapers and books were scoured and private collections opened up for the author’s inspection, most importantly that of the late Nick Culpeper. Recent years have seen a proliferation of digital resources and these too have been exploited to help create this thorough, detailed volume that reveals more than any crime historian previously knew about one of the great crimes and trials of the twentieth century.

Know then the story of Samuel Herbert Dougal; faithless husband, negligent father, rapacious philanderer, mountebank, sexual predator, suspected murderer, forger, suspected arsonist, thief, certified lunatic, liar, perjurer and, unforgettably, the Moat Farm Murderer.

Nicholas Connell

Hertfordshire, 2012

Epigraph

When the spring is come, love,

And the rippling brooklets flow –

Then we’ll meet once more, love,

In our own dear vale below.

When the moon shines soft, love,

And the silvery fountains flow,

Where the rustling leaves, love,

Whisper dreams of long ago. …

When the winter is come, love,

And the dreary night winds blow –

Then will you forget, love,

Our fond dream of long ago?

Then will you forget, love,

This fond dream of long ago?1

As your hair grows whiter, I will love you more;

Though your eyes were brighter in the days of yore,

Though your footsteps falter,

My love shall never alter,

As your hair grows whiter, I will love you more.2

CHAPTER ONE

‘Guilty or not guilty?’

No answer.

The same question again. More loudly. Urgency in the voice.

‘Are you guilty or not guilty?’

The hand was there, silently twitching on the fatal lever …

SAMUEL DREDGE DOUGAL, a civil engineer born in Greenwich, and Maria Josephine Thompson, who had been born in County Tipperary, Ireland, were married in Dublin on 15 June 1846. She was still in her teens; he was twenty. His unusual middle name – curiously evocative for a civil engineer, although the railways had, by now, begun to usurp the canals – came from his mother’s side. It was probably Samuel Dredge Dougal’s youthful enthusiasm for his profession that had first taken him to Ireland, but he may have been an independent spirit anyway; when he married Maria, he was some distance from home, with, it seems, few family members nearby. Samuel appears to have decided, fairly soon after his marriage, that Ireland would be unable to provide the sustenance to nurture his evolving professional ambitions, or even to permit him to meet his new personal responsibilities. The potato famine was reaching a terrible crescendo, and the population was becoming radicalised in their growing desperation. One rebellion, in 1848, broke out in Maria’s home town of Ballingarry. By this time, however, Samuel and Maria had left Ireland, and were living in East London, and the burden of the greater distance from home had fallen, in the end, not on him, but on her.

By 1851, they were living fairly prosperously, too – not rich, perhaps, but certainly comfortable – in Alfred Street, in Bow. Three miles removed from the city itself, Bow was a middlingly salubrious suburb situated within easy reach of the commercial buzz of the docks, to the south and south west, and the markets and financial centres to the west. Not all of her émigré compatriots, however, were in Maria’s position. Thousands of Irish had fled the famine, and, for many, casual labour at London’s docksides, for which there was sometimes great competition, offered their only day-to-day prospect of legitimate employment. Looking up and down the road, Samuel must have been aware that some of his neighbours had clerical jobs; some carried responsibility; some had servants: these were marks of the area’s quality. On the horizon, though, the comparative misfortunes of the majority were transparently obvious. Whitechapel, sandwiched between the city and Bow, festered and fumed. It was here, in the dark alleyways and squalid courts, that the social implications of want, hunger, disease, neglect, addiction and unemployment found their expression. Already, there was a suspicion that its occult influence had begun to crawl eastwards. Mile End was next to fall; after that, Bow would be exposed to the unwelcome stink of poverty.

Whitechapel, it seems, became Samuel Herbert Dougal’s playground. He had been born, the first son of Samuel and Maria, on 15 May 1847 and, word had it, had already consolidated a carefree, thrill-seeking attitude by the time of his adolescence. He was not unintelligent – when motivated, he could even be scholarly – and his father, apparently at some financial cost to himself, attempted to steer his son into his own field of civil engineering. The details are lost now, but the young Dougal is said to have taken some training – perhaps an apprenticeship – in this discipline. This made him employable, and history recalls that he was a ‘remarkable draughtsman’ and that he had ‘particularly good and clear hand-writing’.3 But Dougal’s early facility with the pen failed to fulfil him. Work was one thing, however competent one was; the company of women, Dougal’s main conflicting interest in his late teenage years, was much more exciting. Viewing the matter from beneath the furrowed brow which is the prerogative of fathers, Samuel Dredge Dougal is said to have disapproved of his son’s hedonistic behaviour, but his strictures can only have frustrated the errant, headstrong, free-spending young man: at this point, sex and – perhaps – embryonic experiments with alcohol became gestures of defiance, rather than mere hobbies.4

The East End’s unabashed public temptations provided the catalyst for disharmony at home. Dougal’s late adolescence has been described in thrillingly evocative, and even envious, terms: ‘vainglorious’, ‘dissolute’, ‘extrovert’, ‘adventurous’, ‘erring’.5 In fact, ‘superficial’ and ‘pretentious’ might fit equally well. He may have fraudulently adopted the habit of speaking with his mother’s Irish accent, finding that women enjoyed the music of the language.6 He may have been encouraged by his early successes with the opposite sex, each separate triumph bolstering his confidence, and he may have been selfish and, for his time, sexually uninhibited.7 Extrovert and adventurous all this may have been; examined another way, Dougal’s licentious predilections, and his glib immunity to his parents’ remonstrations, simply laid the foundations for what was to come.

But much of this is really hearsay, and the first glimpse we catch of the man, beyond the peradventure of his early years, finds him in the flush of his early adulthood: in the middle of March 1866, Samuel Herbert Dougal, R.E., 8739, stood on the Kentish coast at Chatham.8 He had committed to the Royal Engineers for the usual term of service – twelve years. The army was not so long out of the chaos of the Crimea, and, although the public enquiry into the failures of the campaign had sometimes highlighted the lack of intellectual potential in the average British soldier, new recruits were always necessary, and liable to be found among those for whom being shot at by foreign enemies at least represented steady employment. Dougal, with his gift for draughtsmanship and clerical work, detoured naturally into the Engineers. The Ordnance Survey, in particular, was undertaking major mapping exercises across the country at the time, and Dougal’s talents dovetailed neatly with these projects.

A little under 10 stone in weight, 5 feet 8½ inches in height, advertising himself as nineteen going on twenty (a little older than he really was), with grey eyes, brown hair, a fair complexion, no smallpox scars, and a visible vaccination mark: nothing in Dougal’s medical examination compromised his enlistment. Resting, his heart beat seventy-two times per minute; he inhaled eighteen times over the same period.

Superficially, for a young man to whom physical pleasure had become a transfixing goal, all of this resembled reform – or, at least, maturation – and a sustained glow of approval radiated from Dougal’s family. Away from home, and subject to the improving discipline of the military, his commendable career move demanded no second glance; but the distance Dougal had put between himself and his relatives did little, in practice, to encourage self-control. In truth, much had not changed. In April 1866, a month after his enlistment, an injury – a dislocation, caused by a ‘blow against a form’ – forced him into sick bay, and, since full mobility may not have been regained for thirty-six days afterwards, a tedious period of recuperation seems to have followed. Boredom was Dougal’s nemesis, and it may have been during this period that he reverted to his previous thrill-seeking pattern.

On 24 October 1866, he returned to the hospital, again staying for five days. This time, however, the reason was different. Dougal had begun to see no reason why his progress within the Royal Engineers should be incompatible with his ongoing quest for sexual ecstasy, and he reported to the doctor suffering from primary syphilis. He had a lesion, a chancre, probably on his penis. In the column on the medical record sheet entitled ‘Circumstances in or by which Disease was induced’, the medical officer generously wrote ‘contagions’, but there is no doubt that Dougal had availed himself of the services of one, or very possibly more, of the local prostitutes. When he left the hospital, the chancre may have begun to respond to the doctor’s prescription of lotio nigra, a solution of mercury.9

It is probably the case that Dougal’s sexual forays were prolific throughout his period in the Royal Engineers. He would not have been the only military man to visit prostitutes. It may also be true to say that Dougal’s ‘growing reputation as a sexual athlete’, to use Roy Harley Lewis’s phrase, meant that he could attract women as easily as he could pay for them himself, and, in fact, make a profit along the way.10 Fryniwyd Tennyson Jesse writes that ‘only his fellow-soldiers knew his private life to have been a long procession of inglorious victories over servantmaids and shopgirls, who were relieved of their virtue and their money by Dougal’.11 The combination of sex and money continued to animate Dougal, just as it had in London.

On the other hand, divesting innocent Kentish girls of their virginity and their money came with a built-in escape clause. When the fact that they had been tricked, and were consequently out of pocket, hit them, they were in no position to protest, lest their own sexual morals be inquired into. Social anxieties about female sexuality provided Dougal with the scope he needed to pursue his hedonistic lifestyle. The money which he took from one victim would entice another one, if he needed one. It is fair to assume that his sexual appetite, in the blush of his youth, was enormous.

Only venereal diseases stood up for the town’s female population as Dougal swept through them like fire. By 19 November, he was back in the hospital for another five-day spell, complaining of orchitis, a testicular condition which can manifest itself in intense pain, swelling, and the presence of blood in the urine and in the ejaculate. This was unpleasant, and Dougal was treated with fomentations. It was also, as the doctor must have been aware, sexually transmitted, linked to chlamydia and gonorrhoea. Dougal demurely attributed his condition to ‘a strain’. On 24 April 1867, just over a year after he had joined the Engineers, Dougal again went to the hospital, this time with condylomata – a rash resulting in white lesions, and a secondary feature of his syphilis, appearing a few months after the chancre. This time, he stayed for nine days, and was treated with silver nitrate. He gave the cause of this new ailment as ‘filth’.

It may not have been an entire coincidence that, at this juncture, Dougal’s work began to take him away from Chatham. Of course, a surveyor was little use if he was tied to his office, and whatever training Dougal may have required had probably now been completed, but it cannot have escaped the notice of his superiors that the medical problems with which Dougal reported were, more often than not, the injurious knock-on effects of his ardent sexual adventures. He had spent nearly three weeks in the hospital with venereal complaints within the first fourteen months of his service with the Royal Engineers. It was not yet a disciplinary matter, but something had to be done.

Some time in 1867 or 1868, Dougal began a tour of duty at Cork Harbour, in Ireland.12 If he was still affecting an Irish accent, this may have recommended him for the transfer. It is hard not to see the posting as a tactical manoeuvre on the part of Dougal’s commanding officers; removing the man from the various enticements of Chatham may have been intended to help him settle down, and to encourage him to develop a more mature understanding of himself and his responsibilities. One doubts, however, that Cork was entirely free of vice; Dougal, with his sixth sense for dissolution, was accustomed to tracking it down when and where he could. Eventually, he seems to have rebelled against the discipline which the Engineers were attempting to foster within him. It is not clear whether he was back in Chatham, or whether he was in Cork, or perhaps somewhere else, but, on Tuesday 21 July 1868, he failed to report to work at 8.00a.m. At 9.00p.m., having been missing the whole day, he turned up, albeit too late to participate in the regiment’s formal tattoo. For this offence, he was fined three days’ pay.

Then, on Saturday 8 August, Dougal went missing again. This time, he was gone until the following Thursday. On his return, from who knows where, he found himself stripped of five days’ pay and, from 15 August until 21 August, he was imprisoned, the days of his absence being deducted from his service record. It is notable that, after August 1868, Dougal never again went to the military prison. The next few years were not without some excitement – the brothel and the low-grade public house could not be taken out of the man, even if the man could be taken out of the brothel and the low-grade public house – but Dougal seems generally to have known better than to court visits to the so-called glasshouse in the future.

Re-posted again, he arrived in Chester on 23 September 1868, the disciplinary infractions of the summer still not far behind him. There was ongoing Ordnance Survey work in North Wales with which Dougal was now to assist; he would be billeted with civilians when his work took him into the dark Welsh mountains, far from base. This again seems to have been intended to impose a sense of routine on Dougal’s erratic lifestyle: his breaches of the disciplinary code had revealed that his resistance to the army’s strict expectations remained firm; his quest for erotic transportation remained undimmed. In Wales, his access to the raw materials of his private endeavours would probably be more limited. He may also have been expected to ‘improve’ as a consequence of the stunning and unspoiled scenery, which, it might have been supposed, could not fail to leave its impression on the depraved canvas of Dougal’s soul.

This was really as innocent a hope as it sounds, but there were, at least initially, superficially positive indications of moral improvement. On Monday 8 March 1869, Dougal, the imperiously independent hedonist, married Lovenia Martha Griffith at Northop Church, near Mold in Flintshire. He was twenty-two; she was twenty. The marriage was announced in the Liverpool Mercury on 12 March, a public sign of the sudden and wholly unexpected leap into public respectability which Dougal was taking.13 It is probable that Dougal’s father-in-law, a stationer, made the arrangements for the announcement to be published, and met any costs involved. For Dougal, a man who was so much at the mercy of his urges, this was all very out of character, and perhaps, as Lewis suggests, a ‘major error of judgement’.14 The real cause of Dougal’s sudden marriage is not known – it is possible that Lovenia Martha Griffith had become pregnant, forcing Dougal’s hand; although, if she did, she would seem to have later miscarried.

For Dougal’s part, there certainly seems to have been something distinctly involuntary in this arrangement. Domestic tranquillity and intolerable tedium were linked ideas in his mind. His wife – who seems to have been known by her middle name, Martha – was an encumbrance, and the situation, far from being one of emotional neatness and fulfilment, looked untidy. Martha was unrecognised by Dougal’s employer: having failed to seek his superiors’ permission to marry, Dougal ‘only obtained military recognition as a married man on 12 May 1877’, although Martha clearly lived with him at certain barracks in the meantime.15 Of course, Dougal was in denial – Martha was, no doubt, somewhere out of the way when, stupidly, he again absconded from duty at Abergele on 12 February 1870, only returning on St Valentine’s Day. The episode cost him three days’ pay; he probably spent the missing time with a girl. Despite his marriage, he remained stead-fastly devoted to his intemperate habits.

None of this made itself obvious to Dougal’s family in London, who continued to believe that his youthful hedonism had subsided. Dougal, luxuriating in this delayed parental approval, lost little time in sending Martha down to London, and to his parents’ then-home, Livingstone House, on Livingstone Road, in Battersea. In April 1871, at the time of the national census, she was listed there, with Dougal’s parents, his three brothers and his sister. By now, she was twenty-one; she was also pregnant. To the onlooker, it all betokened Dougal’s new-found maturity; for Dougal, it was to his advantage to keep Martha at a safe distance. She gave birth at Livingstone House on 3 June 1871. The baby was named Charles Herbert Dougal. As before, the Liverpool Mercury announced the happy event.16 At the time, Dougal was probably still in Wales.

In late 1872, another child followed; this was Lovenia, named after her mother. She was probably conceived around the time Dougal received his first increment on his military salary, 1d, for good conduct.17 Since his last flit without leave, in early 1870, he had enjoyed a period of settled professional behaviour which had, at last, recommended him to his superiors. He may – it seems doubtful – have developed somewhat more moderate habits; much more likely, he had simply become more cautious about hiding his misdemeanours, probably in order to sustain the useful support of his wife’s family. On 1 March 1873 – St David’s Day, and the day before the seventh anniversary of his enlistment at Westminster – he was, at last, promoted to the rank of Second Corporal.

Before the year was out, Dougal was transfer red to the Engineers’ barracks at the Tower of London. Even he may have seen the irony in this. Once the state’s greatest prison, the Tower cut in where the eastern boundary of the City of London met the Thames. Whitechapel was a short walk away through Goodman’s Fields, or up Leman Street. It was as if the ghosts of his early years were returning to him, or, more accurately, he to them. He moved with Martha, Charles and Lovenia into rooms for married soldiers in Martin Tower, at the north-eastern corner of the inner wall.

Then, on 24 December 1873, little Lovenia died, aged fourteen months. An inquest was conducted on Christmas Day, and the death was attributed to convulsions linked to teething. The effect on the family is difficult to apprehend. Dougal was in the midst of an extended period of relatively good conduct – would the loss affect him, tip the subtle balance? Martha was seven months pregnant. The birth of George Marmaduke Dougal on 22 February 1874 must have been framed darkly with her sadness.

Professional good tidings – Dougal received another promotion, to the rank of Sergeant and Third Class Military Staff Clerk, on 26 January 1874, and another pay increment, authorised on 14 February 1874 – conflicted with the family’s loss. Martha may have prevailed on Dougal to seek a transfer away from the awful Tower, with its secrets and its spectres – considering that Lovenia had died at Christmas, the whole affair was tinged with an undeniably Dickensian sense of pathos, unbearable and suffocating. By May, Dougal was in Belfast.18

Dougal’s most recent promotion had seen him move away from surveying and into administration. As a clerk, he became an operative within the biggest bureaucracy in the world. The work may sometimes have been intellectually unchallenging, but he may already have been tiring of a lifestyle which had seen him dragged from one grim place to another. While this was typical for a surveyor, as a clerk Dougal could hope for a more prolonged placement in one locale.

This would not be Belfast, although he appears to have been there for three years. Initially, he served as Senior Military Engineer Clerk under Major-General G.S. Tilly, the Commanding Royal Engineer of the Belfast District. Writing later from his retirement in Dulwich, Tilly recalled Dougal’s ‘diligence and intelligence’ which ‘gave me full satisfaction’. Tilly left Belfast in October 1876, and Richard H. Stotherd replaced him. He, too, remembered Dougal as ‘very steady, hardworking and attentive to his duties’. All this is entirely possible; Dougal’s ability to complete his work never seems to have caused complaint. Stotherd also remembered that Dougal worked under him until May 1878, however, and here he was mistaken. The opportunity to settle somewhere had arisen, and, in May 1877, Dougal had taken it. He was to be billeted to Halifax, Nova Scotia, across the Atlantic in Canada.

Perhaps, after three years in Belfast, it was time for Dougal to move on, although if he had burned his bridges, or otherwise got into trouble, we do not know of it. It is difficult to know, too, why Dougal decided to look to North America for a sense of permanence, particularly as his relationship with his parents and, by extension, his siblings, had turned in his favour. There is nothing to show that he was persona non grata in England. However, on Monday 14 May 1877, two days after gaining belated military recognition for his marriage, he, Martha, and George sailed for the New World – Charles, Dougal’s eldest son, probably stayed behind in the custody of his grandparents.19

The Royal Engineers were, in truth, coming towards the end of their engagement in Nova Scotia. Halifax had been established as a military garrison in the eighteenth century, but the value of a standing military force in the North–West Atlantic had diminished over the course of the nineteenth century, with the focus of British interests shifting towards Africa and India. In the meantime, the retinue of Engineers still in Nova Scotia were given the task of photographing the defence complexes of which they were in charge. A remarkable series of pictures resulted, depicting the area in all its natural beauty.20

It is difficult to see Dougal failing to take an interest in the photographic process. In his thirties, he became increasingly fascinated by the rapid scientific progress which was taking place around him. Electricity, which was then becoming subject to increasing human control as a power source, became a particular point of curiosity, and Dougal developed a practical knowledge of it. In 1877, he may have had almost no experience of operating the telegraph; by 1882, he was in charge of the Telegraph Office (Military) at the Royal Engineer Office in Nova Scotia, and was, according to the eventual head of the Royal Engineers’ Telegraph Service in the Boer War, A.E. Wrottesley, an ‘expert Telegraph manipulator … thoroughly acquainted with the connections of the Telegraph Instruments in use at the Station (Morse Recorders, Polarized Relays and Sounders, Field Pattern, etc.)’.21 Remarkably, he undertook his telegraphic duties in addition to his administrative duties, showing the reserves of energy which dwelt within the man, and the great feats he could achieve when he could be motivated to deploy them. He is also believed to have owned a yacht, developing an interest in sailing in the clear Atlantic waters.22

On 5 July 1877, not long after arriving in Nova Scotia, Dougal had been re-engaged with the Royal Engineers. The twelve years for which he had originally enlisted were nearly elapsed; now, he agreed to give a total of twenty-one years’ service, due to end in March 1887.23 He gained an additional penny on his pay for good conduct on 13 March 1878, and on 1 October 1880 was promoted again, becoming a Quartermaster-Sergeant and Second Class Military Staff Clerk. Professionally, Dougal had had a decade of practically uninterrupted, if somehow modest, success – and there had been no trips to the glasshouse, no awkward scandals, and apparently no venereal disease. Again, his commanding officers glowed with satisfaction – Wrottesley wrote that he considered Dougal ‘thoroughly trustworthy’; Charles C. Carter, writing later to Dougal from India, praised ‘your character and the manner in which you did your work’.24

The family grew again. Emily Maria Cleopatra Dougal was born in 1878, and Albert Edward Dougal followed, on 9 November 1880, though there may have been losses too – children named Oscar Lewis Dougal, Ada Beatrice Dougal, Beatrice Dougal, Samuel Dredge Dougal (named after his grandfather) and, perhaps, James Dougal all appear to have died at terribly young ages. Even these misfortunes did not seem to affect Dougal’s professional equilibrium, however. In July 1881, Dougal was made Quarter master-Sergeant and Engineering Clerk, probably in recognition of his work with the telegraph.25 On 14 February 1884, he gained a fourth increment of a penny on his pay, reflecting his good conduct. He was now thirty-seven, within sight of the end of his military career and, as far as anybody could tell, enjoying personal and professional contentment.

Suddenly, everything started to unravel. As a clerk in a fixed post, even one working amid Nova Scotia’s vast panoramas, Dougal found himself forced uncomfortably closer to Martha, and the pressure began to tell – his yachting excursions came, now, with dreams of escape. He seemed to have become dissatisfied by the stability and contentment which he may have enjoyed in the 1870s. He had retained his reputation as a sexual predator: one Canadian newspaper, some time after the event, recalled that he was ‘one of the finest looking men in uniform ever seen in Halifax’ and a ‘great favourite with females’.26 The tactics he had developed in his days at Chatham – the dignity of the uniform, the melody of the Irish lilt – may still have been effective weapons in his compulsive pursuit of attractive but naïve women. He is widely believed to have made a crutch of drinking, and there are suggestions, made later, that Dougal had begun beating Martha. Jesse describes Martha as having led ‘a very unhappy life’ in Nova Scotia; she implies that Dougal would ‘ill-treat’ her.27 Dougal, for his part, later claimed that Martha was ‘ailing’; she had been ill, he said, since the mid-1870s.28 In his account, this would have been the reason for her unhappiness.

There developed an almost frantic edge to Dougal’s activity. His extra duties at the Telegraph Office took him in one direction; his intellectual curiosity and creativity took him in another. On Saturday 23 February 1884, Dougal and Edward Bolman, a Nova Scotian of his acquaintance, signed an indenture relating to their new invention, ‘to be known as the “Dougal-Bolman Combination Automatic Break and Coupler”’.29 Grandly, they planned to patent the device ‘in the different countries which they mutually agree upon’. Financial provisions were made in case either signatory sold any part of their holdings. Dougal retained the document for years to come, but it was later said that he exploited their partnership to defraud Bolman of a substantial amount of money.

The invention was not, apparently, a success, but the episode illustrated Dougal’s ready ability to survive the tides of rapidly changing technology. It seems likely that he played a role in the adaptations to the fortifications at Nova Scotia which occurred in and around 1884 – Piers, the historian of the fort at Halifax, who was writing in the 1940s, reflected that these changes had become necessary because electricity had begun to ‘take a prominent part in warfare’.30 Electricity remained Dougal’s amateur specialism. Searchlights, a response to the introduction of underwater craft, may have been the area of Dougal’s main involvement: years later, he would have a hand in implementing electric light systems back in England.

By the summer of 1885, Dougal’s marital situation must have become untenably bad: drinking and womanising had long been the makeweights in his life. Then, on Saturday 27 June 1885, Martha died. The death was sudden, unexpected – unless she really had, as Dougal later reported, been ill for years. Unquestionably, it was rapid – Jesse says that Martha, ‘after suffering great pain’, died on the same day that her symptoms first appeared.31 Some accounts concertina the duration of Martha’s illness into a twelve-hour period, or even less.32 After her demise, things went no more slowly – one version of events suggests that Martha was buried in Fort Massey cemetery ‘two days later’; most suggest that interment occurred ‘within twenty-four hours’.33 Dougal, writing much later, reacted angrily to these ‘insinuations’.34 Martha was ‘not interred the next day after decease but … kept the usual time, about four or five days,’ he objected. He attributed her death to tuberculosis.

But what had happened to Martha? We have only Dougal’s word for her chronic illness. Most observers, all of whom were writing many years later, concluded that she had been murdered. The suddenness of her death argues against a long-standing condition such as tuberculosis; but we are without any picture of Martha’s health in the months and years before. Perhaps she had declined gradually, and then died rather suddenly. There is a suggestion that her final symptoms included ‘pains’, and the condition certainly seemed to be related to something Martha had eaten.35 This pointed to food poisoning, or, more suspiciously, the adulteration of a meal – perhaps a dose of arsenic, the drug of choice for so many Victorian poisoners, would have done it. Martha’s prompt burial (if it was prompt, which Dougal denied) concealed the evidence of any crime. Against these suspicions, Dougal protested that Martha had been ‘attended by the Regimental Doctor’, who should, if he had any doubts about the cause of death, have referred the case for further investigation.

One chronicler goes further, elucidating a financial motive for the murder. He observes that Martha did not leave a will – in the circumstances, her estate ‘would have passed on to Dougal’.36 But there is no indication that Martha had anything Dougal wanted: more to the point, it was not clear that there was anything Martha had now that she had not had, say, two or three years before, or whenever the relationship had begun to sour. It was true that Martha’s mother, Alicia, had died in 1883 – her father, Thomas, had died in the first part of 1874, when Martha was still mourning the Christmas-time death of her daughter, Lovenia – but there is no sign of any inheritance: the Griffiths’ finances were reasonably situated, but they were not wealthy. Dougal’s conduct in the aftermath of Martha’s death was clearly plausible enough to permit him to sidle away from any contemporary public suspicion. He announced his wife’s death in ironically parsimonious terms in the Halifax Morning Herald: ‘Died Lovenia Martha, the wife of Quartermaster Sergeant Samuel Herbert Dougal, Royal Engineers, aged 37 years’.37

In fact, Dougal’s experiences over the next four months or so taught him that he could be almost careless, and still avoid detection. Approximating broken-heartedness, he applied for and was permitted ‘a short furlough in England’, and left Nova Scotia on an eastbound ship on 16 July 1885.38 By 4 August, he was back, and he had another woman with him.39

His overseas trip gave Dougal the opportunity to distribute his children to well-meaning relatives, and perhaps to boarding schools or even children’s homes, back in England.40 He was constitutionally isolated from their feelings about their mother’s death, and, in their absence, the effect upon them of his rapid second marriage – to Mary Herberta Boyd, aged twenty-eight – is difficult to appreciate. It was not unknown, and not wrong, for widowers to remarry, but it was flying in the face of convention to do so with such brash celerity. It was as if Dougal was challenging the world to see him, to judge him, and still the world would not see, and would not judge. Ever-selfish, with a nuanced view of the world which shunned balance and perspective in favour of self-gratification and bravado, Dougal began to behave as if the feelings of invulnerability which had characterised the carnival of his young adulthood had fully returned. He appeared to have resolved, whether consciously or unconsciously, to approach forty with the wilful energy of his youth.

In fact, in spite of Dougal’s supposed furlough in England, Mary Herberta Boyd was Irish. She comes across well in the literature: her father had apparently been an army surgeon; Edgar Wallace wrote that she was ‘tall, young and good-looking’; and, as one newspaper put it, she ‘was said to have a lot of money’.41 She also had a daughter who, like Dougal’s daughter, was about seven years old and named Emily. Mary had, very likely, been widowed, and this may explain the source of her rumoured wealth. Obviously, however, Dougal could sense her aching vulnerability – the fact that he managed to persuade her to emigrate to Nova Scotia within, apparently, just a few days of meeting her probably shows that she, like many of Dougal’s past conquests, had idealised him, imagining him to have become instantaneously, hopelessly besotted with her, as she had become with him. This was exactly the sort of misapprehension which Dougal, now in the midst of deepening moral extinction, loved to nurture. On Friday 14 August 1885, less than two weeks after he had stepped back onto the Nova Scotian shore with Mary, and less than seven weeks since Martha had succumbed to whatever had she had succumbed to, Dougal and Mary married, again without the leave of his superiors, ‘at the home of the curate of St Paul’s Anglican Church’.42

From the start, Mary, like Martha, and like innumerable and nameless others, was a victim of Dougal’s internal éminence grise, the grasping hidden self which contrasted so starkly with his charming exterior. Martha, after so many years of marriage, may have begun to see it for what it was, and it is probable that his infidelities were the cause of many of their arguments. She could not tear herself away from him – where would she go, in Nova Scotia? – but she may at least have fought back for a time. One suspects, though, that Mary never saw the hypocrisy in Dougal. When she arrived in Nova Scotia in August, she was in love, and, purportedly, in ‘excellent health’.43 By the end of the first week in October, she too was dead.

This time the decline had, perhaps, been a little more drawn-out. The Daily Telegraph, writing later, supposed that ‘fourteen days’ had elapsed between the onset of Mary’s symptoms and her death; but most other sources suppose that the speed of the demise rivalled that of Martha’s.44 There was an alarming sense of déjà vu: Mary’s illness manifested itself in vomiting and coughing fits; Dougal, somewhat ambiguously, attributed the death to Mary’s having ‘eaten poisonous oysters’.45 First-hand, and well after the event, Dougal again objected to rumours which were circulating about his part in the matter. Mary, he gushed in his indignation, ‘was in a consumption when I married her, but we hoped the change from Ireland to Canada would be beneficial … [however] it failed to improve her condition’.46 Apart from this, Dougal insisted that his ministrations for Mary had been of the same unimpeachable standard as had been his ministrations for Martha. Again, the regimental doctor had attended the dying woman; again, burial had not been hurried through, but had happened at the ordinary time, four or five days later.

Naturally, the retrospective sources disagree. One newspaper describes Mary’s funeral as taking place on ‘the day after she died, and there were two mourners – Dougal and one other’. Like Martha, Mary was laid to rest in Fort Massey cemetery, although their memories were hardly distinguished by lavish expenditure: ‘they are only marked by two slabs bearing official military numbers’.

Still, scarcely an eyelid batted. In Dougal’s heroic version of events, he had fallen in love with and rather gallantly married a woman who was, it seems, at death’s door. He had taken her across the sea to a place of crystal waters and huge, clear skies, for the benefit, he hoped, of her precarious health; but there she had sadly faded, leaving him to look after her child, which he did, equally gallantly. In all other versions, Mary’s wealth is emphasised, the nature of her fatal illness questioned – ‘a violent stomach upset, indicating an irritant of some sort’ is a typical description – and the strange echoes of Martha’s death amplified.47 It was only hindsight which made made the latter comparison available, or even tempting; but no contemporary suspicions about the causes of Dougal’s wives’ misfortunes seemed sufficient to prevent him from drifting untarnished into the affections of his next inamorata – Bessie Stedman, the daughter of a local farmer. Indeed, Bessie may have been hovering on the edges of the drama for a little while: she is described in Edgar Wallace’s account as having been ‘a friend of both the Mrs Dougals’.48 There is a good chance that, if the scene at Mary’s funeral was accurately depicted, the ‘one other’ mourner, beside Dougal at the grave, was Bessie.

She was the familiar type – ‘good-looking’, ‘young’ – these were both epithets which had also been applied to Mary.49 Bessie was about twenty-two, and deeply susceptible to Dougal’s flattering attentions.50 It would have been easy for him to play on her well-intended sympathy: he had, after all, lost two wives, and he was accustomed to mimicking the effects of grief, even if this emotion, like remorse, remained outside his affect. She was probably helpful with Mary’s Emily, who was Dougal’s only surviving dependant in Canada, and then only by virtue of his marriage to a now-deceased woman. In retrospect, it seems surprising that Dougal did not immediately attempt to send Emily back to Ireland, since she would inevitably be a drain on whatever profit he had made from her mother’s death. The psychological effects of her traumatic experiences – a sudden emigration and the loss of her mother in not much more than a couple of months – were quite uninteresting to him; in spite of Bessie’s help, it is entirely possible that they remained with Emily for the rest of her life.

Just as he turned forty, in May 1886, Dougal made ready to be sent back to England. After nearly nine years in Nova Scotia, he was being posted to Aldershot, in Hampshire, with less than a year of his contracted service remaining.51 So what of Bessie? Would he take her, too?

Of course he would: she was, at this stage, unquestioningly loyal, probably prepared to overlook his dalliances, and inclined to attribute some of his mood swings to the shock of his bereavements. On the other hand, unless they were married, her passage to England would not be complimentary of the military. Dougal, in his typically bluff manner, but saving pennies where he could, decided that a formal ceremony would be unnecessary; he ‘represented’ Bessie as his wife, tempting those around him to object.52 Unusually, someone did – the commanding officer, who was required to sign for the free pass, demurred. Dougal, unperturbed, is supposed to have forged a marriage certificate.53 The commanding officer demurred again. Fed up, Dougal paid for Bessie’s ticket out of his own pocket.54

And so Dougal’s career in the Royal Engineers wound down towards its conclusion. At Aldershot (and without the burden of his stepdaughter Emily, who had been returned to her maternal relatives in Ireland), he continued with his clerical duties, now under the direction of Ferdinand Bedwith Mainguy, an old acquaintance from Nova Scotia who had also been posted back to England.55 Responsibly, Dougal began writing to former colleagues, seeking their testimonials, aware that he would be required to get a civilian job when he left the military. In his private life, however, the constant pressure of maintaining the unswerving rectitude of his public image was, again, beginning to tell, and his ‘marriage’ to Bessie had already begun to suffer. He had started to mistreat her – again, physical measures are suspected – and she, in her naïveté, may still have been expecting the relationship, regardless of its violence, to attain permanence.56 Dougal had no intention of marrying her, but he may very well have hinted that he would, purely to keep her interested – Bessie herself later spoke of his ‘false representations’.57