A WISBECH TRAGEDY

There was one very serious case before the jury at Cambridge Assizes in June 1905. It was a charge against John Day of murdering the woman with whom he was living, Frances Parlett. She was married about six years ago, but left her husband, and for two years she had lived with the accused at 18a Carpenter's Arms-yard. At one o’clock in the morning May 2nd they were in their living room, one of two rooms in which they lived. Day, having fallen asleep, was awakened by the woman, and it was said that either in sudden anger or with malice aforethought, he seized a lighted paraffin lamp which was on the table, and threw it at her. She was at once covered in flames, and screamed and rushed to the front door. A very worthy man who lived near, and who often heard screams, went out and saw the poor creature. With remarkable courage and pluck, this elderly man rushed hack into his house and secured some blankets, with which he put out the flames. Next day the woman died, fearfully burnt. The evidence was that the accused, about 11 o'clock that night, was heard to say to her that he would do something to her when he got home.

Nothing remains of Carpenter's Arms-yard today. It was a narrow lane running off what is now West Street, and it ended just short of Tillery Field, which in those days was a cemetery. Its position was more or less where St Paul's Close is now. By all accounts it was one of the meaner streets of the town. I have been unable to find any

image of Carpenter's Arms Yard, but it is safe to imagine that it would have been narrow, dirty and the tiny terraced houses would have been packed with residents  who were at the bottom end of society. The photo on the right is of an existing Wisbech alley which, due to its central position has survived more or less intact, and gives us an idea of what the Yard might have looked like Carpenter's Arms Yard was earmarked for slum clearance in the late 1920s along with its near neighbour Ashworth's Yard, and both were gone before the outbreak of World War II. What is now St Peter's Road was probably more prosperous than either of the Yards, and its terraced houses were spared the redevelopments of the 1930s. It is tempting to look back and wish that more of old Wisbech had been preserved, but we would do well to remember that conditions in these old houses would be awful, even by standards of the time. Damp, insanitary and built on the cheap, these grim places contributed to the general poor health and high death rate of the time. The cemetery at the bottom of the slight slope of Carpenter's Arms Yard was actually instituted as an overflow burial ground when a cholera epidemic struck the town earlier in the 19th century.

Back to the terrible events of May, 1905. Sadly, Frances Parlett died of her burns the next day, and the wheels of the law began to grind. The first step was a Coroner's Inquest.At the inquest, it was reported that:
"Deceased was suffering from extensive superficial burns, extending from the knees to the armpits, and the front part was worse than the back. If deceased had been sitting at a table and the lamp capsized one would have expected more severe burns at one particular spot. There were no marks on her face or chest to show that they had come in contact with a hard substance, and would have expected to have found some marks on the body if it had been struck by the lamp with much violence."

In answer to the Foreman, a witness said he thought the lamp could be thrown with sufficient force on the steel of the deceased’s corsets to break the lamp and not mark the body. The skin was discoloured too much to see any bruise. Herbert Brightwell, bootmaker, 19a, Carpenter’s Arms-yard, said heard the deceased and Day come home about 11 o’clock on the night in question. About one o’clock he was awakened by the shuffling of feet, but he heard no voices. Immediately afterwards he heard a woman scream, and saw a bright light flash across his window. The woman continued to scream, and he went downstairs. When he opened the door of Day’s house the deceased, who was in flames, fell into his arms. Witness attempted to put out the flames by wrapping blankets round her. 

Brightwell  asked Day to assist him, but he did not do so, and said nothing. Having put out the flames, witness ran to tell Deceased's sister, and Day ran after him, saying "What the **** are you exciting yourself about. If you don’t come back here I will jolly well put you through it as well.”

It was also alleged that after the woman was in this fearful condition, Day did nothing to help extinguish the fire except to pour some water on the woman from a small teapot. He was also said to have threatened do the same for a man who was trying put out the flames if he made fuss about it. There was no other possible conclusion at the inquest other than that Frances Parlett had met her painful end through the violent actions of John Day, and that Day must face trial for murder.

At Day's trial in June 1905, much was made of the fractious and often violent relationship between Frances Parlett and himself. The poor woman did not die until the next day, and in the immediate aftermath of the attack initially defended Day, but then the following exchange was relayed to the court. Sergeant Watson took the prisoner upstairs to see the deceased, and they had a conversation.
Day said, " Frances, did I do it ?”
She answered, "Yes, you bad boy, you know you did it,”
Day said, “It’s false.”
Frances repeated, "You did, you bad boy, you know you did.”
She was also heard to say, "You murderer, you have done it this time. You have had a good many tries, and you have done it this time.”

In the event, the defence barrister for Day made great play on the grave

responsibility that the jurors held. If they found Day guilty of murder, he would surely hang. In the words of the newspaper report, Mr Stewart, for the defence, remarked that the punishment for the crime with which the prisoner was charged was death, and it was not necessary to say more than that to bring home the jury the great and terrible responsibility that rested upon them. The onus of proof against the prisoner lay with the prosecution, and it was for them to satisfy the jury beyond the possibility of reasonable doubt that the prisoner was responsible for the deed. He contended that this had not been done. The statement of the woman was not in nature of dying declaration,and it ought not to regarded as more important, or have more credence attached to it than was attached to any of the evidence called before the Court during the day.

The jury baulked at finding Day guilty of murder, but found him guilty of manslaughter, for which he received the sentence of seven years Penal Servitude. It is pointless to speculating over a century later whether Frances Parlett received justice. If John Day had committed the offence in 2014 and had been found guilty of either manslaughter or murder, he would have been spared the hangman's noose. It is also fair to point out that women were not permitted to sit on criminal case juries until well after the Great War, a war which was to claim five more victims from Carpenter's Arms Yard.

MURDER MOST FOUL (2)

On 15 September 1885, a 45 year-old Walsoken farmer called Robert Goodale murdered his wife, Bathsheba. After battering her about the head with a billhook, he attempted to hide her corpse by throwing it down a well. 

 

It was a troubled marriage, and Bathsheba Goodale had frequently sought refuge with a neighbour from her husband's violent temper. Goodale had confided in a friend, that he "had done the business, she won't bark at me any more."

This is an extract from a contemporary newspaper account.
A woman named Goodale. the wife of a small farmer and market gardener, was. about seven o’clock on Wednesday morning, found dead in well on the premises belonging to their cottage, which is situate near the Rifle Butts. The deceased woman owned several places in Albion Place, Wisbech, in one of which she and her husband were accustomed to sleep, as the cottage at the Butts was lonely. Some suspicion was aroused by the arrival of Goodale in Wisbech without his wife on Tuesday evening, and the following morning the discovery her body was made. On the woman’s head were several severe wounds, evidently Inflicted by some sharp instrument. 

The husband is in custody, and will be brought up before the Norfolk magistrates, in which county the scene of the supposed murder situated. The accused was brought in custody on Wednesday, before Mr. A. W. English, a Norfolk magistrate, charged with the wilful murder of Bathsheba his wife, at Walsoken, on the 13th of September.—Sergeant Houghton deposed that he went towards the house the accused, and saw him on the river bank. He noticed he had some blood on his “chummy hat and waistcoat." When taken into custody, he said, It’s a rum job.” He asked where she was, and witness told him her body was in the well. asked witness to let him and see, and he went with accused to the well. There was a body in it partly covered by water. Accused was then left in charge of two men. while the body was got out of the well. Witness recognised the body as that of Bathsheba Goodale. 

There was a large wound on her left temple, another large wound on the top and back of her head, with blood flowing from them. The wounds witness thought were sufficient to kill her. The depth of the well was twenty feet. Witness had not found any instrument that might have caused the wounds. There were blood spots on his trousers, which appeared to have been washed. Accused said that he got wet by going through the marshes. Cross-examined by prisoner: I don’t remember you saying it was earlier than five o’clock when you left your house.—The prisoner was committed to Norwich Castle, to be brought up for trial at Terrington on Monday next.
 
Goodale was found guilty of murder, and was executed on 30 November, 1885, inside Norwich Castle. The hangman was James Berry of Bradford, but his calculations went awry. 

Norwich Castle at the time of Goodale's execution

As the trapdoor opened, and the 15 stone Goodale fell to his death, the official onlookers gasped with horror as the rope rebounded out of the trapdoor, swinging loose. As Berry and the prison surgeon looked under the staging of the scaffold they saw the Goodale's body lying there - with his decapitated head, still wearing the execution hood, beside it on the ground.

It had not been a great year for Berry. Earlier in the year he had famously failed to hang John Babbacombe Lee (The Man They Couldn't Hang) when the trapdoor repeatedly failed to open. Here is James Berry's calling card.

Please check back at the weekend for the next installment of MURDER MOST FOUL

 

MURDER MOST FOUL

An old Wisbech murder surfaced this weekend on social media. Someone reported a mysterious memorial which has been placed at the edge of Wisbech Park. It is in the shape of a fairly rough wooden cross, with a laminated message pinned to it.

Speculation about the event it refers to was ended by the keen researcher's brain of Susanah Farmer, who found the following references, in contemporary newspapers far from Fenland. This, from The Nottingham Evening Post:

The inquest on the victims of the Wisbech double tragedy was resumed at Wisbech, Cambs, to-day. They were Doris Florence Reeve, 24, who was found stabbed to death on a footpath near Wisbech Park, and her husband, Walter Reeve, 26, of Low Side, Upwell, Norfolk, found hanging from the luggage rack of a railway coach at Wisbech station. A verdict of Murder and felo-de-se against the husband was returned. At the opening of the inquest yesterday the woman's father said that her married life was not a happy one, and that her husband had ill-treated her and misconducted himself. Divorce proceedings were pending. This from the Western Daily Press:

Within a few hours his wife being found apparently stabbed death, on footpath adjoining the Wisbech. Cambridgeshire, public park. Walter Reeve (26), of Upwell, Norfolk, was discovered hanging from the luggage rack of a railway carriage. The woman, Mrs Florence Doris Reeve, (24), had been living apart from her husband for about two months and was staying with her parents in Wisbech. She was last seen alive at about 11 o'clock on Saturday night, when a friend accompanied her from a cinema to a garage, which only a few hundred yards from the spot where her body was found. Some men who had slept out in the park discovered the body early yesterday. When police officers under Supt. F. Green, of Wisbech visited Reeve's house, they forced an entry, but found the house unoccupied. A few hours later his body was found hanging from the luggage rack a railway carriage siding at Upwell The spot where the woman's body lay was only about yards from the main road through the town to the east coast. The couple had been married about two years and had no children.

Wisbech has been no stranger to horrific murder cases, whether they took place in this century or previous times. In the next blog, read about the Walsoken man who battered his wife with a billhook, then threw her body down a well. You will be chilled at the macabre way he met his death within the walls of Norwich Castle.

It has been a long time since the blog was updated. But just when so many of you thought it was safe to return to the blogosphere Pickwick, like the legendary King Arthur, wakes from his slumbers to....save the nation? Hmmm, perhaps not. To advertise a gig? YES - got it in one.
Last year, in May, to be precise, there was 'trouble at t'mill' regarding immigration. There was a rally planned for Wisbech Park, and the feeling was that the opposing armies of the EDL and UAF (were two organisations ever so equally despicable?) were going to converge on the park, and slug it out to a finish. In the event, only a handful of people turned up, reporters and onlookers outnumbered activists, and despite a few unwise words being spoken into megaphones, peace prevailed. As a counter to this, The Rosmini Centre, with the help of a few local activists, promoted an International Children's Festival. The Great and The Good turned up, and fun was had by all.
This year, there is no protest march to counter, but there will still be fun and games at The Rosmini Centre. There will be live music, free stuff for kids, refreshments, and the hope is that parents and children of all nationalities will turn up and run along for an hour or two. The unofficial slogan is WISBECH - MANY NATIONS - ONE TOWN. That may smack of spin, but there is much truth in those words.
The weather promises to be vile. Thundery downpours and hailstones the size of meteorites have been threatened. No doubt the meteorological armageddon is punishment from Him Upstairs for the cardinal sin of so many residents of the region in voting for the Legion Of The Damned, a.k.a UKIP.
Sorry folks. I voted UKIP, and even became a paid-up member. BUT, because I want an end to unlimited immigration, it doesn't mean that I am not prepared to work my ever expanding butt off so that those migrants who are here get treated fairly and are given every chance to integrate and understand Britain and what British folk stand for.
So, find your brolly, put on your waterproofs, and come and say "hello" tomorrow at The Rosmini Centre. As a footnote, I am 67 years old, and have taught in various schools since 1969. I am a volunteer at the Rosmini Centre, and the people who make that place tick are the most enlightened, hardworking and admirable people I have ever met.
Hope to see many of you there tomorrow!

TILTING AT WINDMILLS

I SPENT MOST OF MY LATE CHILDHOOD AND A GOOD PART OF MY TEENS pursuing a dark passion. The situations I sought were always steamy, sometimes hot and, occasionally, dirty. My parents knew of my obsession, tolerated it in private, but were clearly embarrassed about my predilections. The fact that my obsession frequently required the presence of three or four other boys, and that I often arrived home quite late at night, sometimes with my clothing in disarray, and usually tired and emotional, were burdens they stoically bore. Yes, readers, it is the vice that dare not speak its name. While other youths were innocently out and about having a crafty Kensitas behind the tennis courts, sharing an illicit bottle of Bulmers' Woodpecker cider, or fumbling with the elastic of Norma Nugent's nickers, I was…..the word sticks in my throat …..trainspotting.

THE LEAD IN MY PENCIL was always as sharp as my eyes (behind NHS specs, which later, much much later, became iconic),  Brylcreem gave me an immaculate side parting, and the Tizer in my school satchel was always served at room temperature, to wash down my favourite packed lunch sandwiches - white bread, margarine, Marmite, Kraft cheese slices, delicately drizzled with Heinz Salad Cream.

I AM GIVING YOU this totally unwanted, unnecessary and redundant information because I want to establish my credentials as a railway lover. I have authored nostalgic railway websites, built an amazing 00 gauge layout for my elder son, and still, occasionally dream of the unique whistle of a Gresley A4 thundering through Peterborough Station on a warm afternoon, some time in the early 1960s.

MY RAILWAY MANIA KNOWS NO BOUNDS. Well actually, it does. It comes to a juddering halt at the futile bid by some very well-meaning Wisbech people to restore the derelict rail link from Wisbech to March. There are two camps. The first wants the line restored as a Heritage Railway - The Bramley Line. 

THE SECOND, more audaciously, wants a fully working freight and passenger railway. Already, thousands of pounds of someone's money (Ed. "It's called Public Funds") has been spent on feasibility surveys, business plan audits, vision statements and community impact consultations. (actually, all those phrases were made up, but they sound good, don't they?)

CUTTING TO THE CHASE.  Here are five solid reasons why the railway between Wisbech and March will never re-open as a working business.

ONE - NO DEMAND. Ask yourself why the line closed in the first place. To passengers? Just go online, and check the per-hundred-of-population figures for car ownership in 1963. What is that figure in 2014? Doubled? To freight? I have been in Wisbech for over twenty years, and can just remember when there was still the occasional freight train from Nestle Purina crawling to heaven knows where. Now? It's all HGVs and roads. It's cheap, easy and takes ten seconds to sign up to an online petition, in this case the petition to restore the rail link. I would take it more seriously if everyone who signed had to commit to buying a full price season ticket for the line's first year of operation.
TWO - NO STATION. Rail travelers need somewhere to embark. Parking is essential. Shelter, safety, reasonable access are also obviously required. Although the trackbed is partially intact, there is no station in Wisbech. The two historic stations have long since disappeared under bijou boxy housing. Under a state funded initiative, some new stations have been built in recent years. The one in Newcourt, Devon, cost a cool £1.44 million. Where would it be built? In town is clearly a non-runner. The slight problems of no land and no access spring immediately to mind.
THREE - THE A47 TRUNK ROAD. Leaving aside that there is another pressure group dedicated to improving this vital east-west route, with complete dualling as a bare minimum, we have the slight difficulty that a few years ago, the powers that be concreted over the crossing just south of Cromwell Road. Everyone knows how dense the traffic is on the A47. It is a nightmare, even when it is flowing smoothly. So, how about every thirty minutes, the level crossing closes for a while to let a sparsely inhabited train through? Cue mayhem. Someone even suggested building a road bridge to take the road over the railway. Add in another cool couple of million to the bill.

FOUR - NO PROFIT. This is slightly more thorny. Some public transport service are run as just that - services. They are heavily subsidised from…yes, you've got it, the public purse. (Sighs, and reaches for wallet) A prime example is local 'bus services. As a card-carrying old duffer, I occasionally use my 'bus pass, and it is a rare experience to see money exchange hands between the driver and passengers. The buses exist pretty much solely for the benefit of the Saga Crowd, but the economics of bus transport are way, way different from that of the railways. Here's some quick maths. Research has shown (OK, I Googled it) to run a two carriage Diesel Multiple Unit of the 175/M class, costs £11.78 per mile.

It's 8 miles from Wisbech to March along the railway. I calculate that if you ran one train an hour, each way between 0800 and 2200, you would have over £2,600 running costs each day. If you estimated a day return as £10, that means 260 journeys each day. Really?
FIVE - NO MONEY. I started to calculate the overall spend on this project, including building costs, staffing, maintenance, revenue stream. I was using Excel, but after a few minutes the program gave up, the screen froze, and I had to reboot the computer. Britain - or at least your and my Britain - the Britain of ordinary people, hardworking families, folk who have to check their funds while using the ATM - have no money. We are taxed to buggery, snipped, pruned and crimped. We are manipulated by a political class slightly lower than a snake's arse. 
THERE IS NO MONEY. For you or for me. Away from the polemic, what is the journey a Wisbech rail traveler would most want to make? Wisbech-King's Lynn? Would be great, but not a chance. Wisbech-Cambridge? Who lives in Wisbech but works in Cambridge? Wisbech-Peterborough? Now you're talking! Oh wait…the train from Wisbech either veers off to the West, therefore missing March Station, or swings East to the station. And is then on the Cambridge line.

A LINK TO THE FREE WORLD would be brilliant, but it ain't gonna happen. Some of the lovely people engaged on this campaign need a wake up call, and should apply their undoubted talent, enthusiasm and talent to a less fantastical project.

NOW,  HERE'S THE THING. Which one quality runs through British veins, and is stamped through us like 'Welcome To Hunstanton' through a stick of seaside rock? Democracy? Well, maybe, but we have had our dodgy moments - we didn't trust women to vote until the 1920s. Sporting fair play? Occasionally, yes, but Australian batsmen during the 1932/33 Bodyline series might beg to differ.

Oh, I know, our infallible courts and wise judicial system? Do I hear the faintest of murmurs from the relatives of the Birmingham Six?

 Putting good taste, talent and respect on prime-time TV rapidly to one side, we are left with only one incontestable virtue. Since our ancestors found the tools and skills to put dialogue onto the written page, we have always been able to laugh at ourselves. We have a splendid back catalogue of scathing-put downs of each other, vicious cartoons, abusive parodies, and savage attacks on the establishment

And yet we are still here. We still have political elections which, despite the best efforts of immigrant activists, are as transparent and fair as any in the world. We can voice an opinion, state a case, give vent to a prejudice safe in the knowledge that we may be disagreed with, parodied, abused or insulted, but we can wake up the next day free to toddle off to our workplace without a visit from the police, or a mentally-ill suicide bomber.
But some so-called UK residents would have this changed. Mohammed "Mo" Ansar describes himself as 'A British Muslim'. He wears a funny little hat and clerical dress, and describes himself as a commentator and visiting lecturer.

Quite who pays him to lecture, or comment is beyond my limited intellectual scope, but he has a full engagement book of appointments with Left-Wing media spongiforms who hang on his every adolescent and ill-informed utterance. He has been offended by a silly little cartoon, showing a badly-drawn Jesus talking to an equally badly-drawn Prophet Mohammed. 

He and his parasitic followers have issued physical threats against a moderate Muslim who is trying to create a Britain where Muslims can happily rub along with other faiths, living and letting live, and respecting each others views and lifestyle choices. Here in Britain we have beliefs. they are many and varied, but they are strong.
If, Mo Ansar, your beliefs are threatened by an amateurish cartoon, then this speaks volumes about you as a person, and the faith which you espouse. We are strong enough to laugh at the cartoon, laugh at you, and laugh at your ignorance and medieval beliefs. I believe that air departure timetables for such comedy hotspots as Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, and Saudi Arabia are readily available online.

Some hoped that the war which engulfed Europe in August 1914 would be over by Christmas. Some hoped that the 2014 centenary of the outbreak would be commemorated with dignity and unity. Both aspirations now seem as foolish as each other. Leaving aside the squabble between Michael Gove and his political enemies, it now seems that the contribution to the war by Australia, New Zealand, Canada and South Africa is being marginalised. Evidently, a Whitehall spokesman told Australian journalists that there would be no focus on the ANZAC, CEF or SA part in the war, rather that officials were "concentrating on promoting the role played by those Commonwealth countries that achieved independence after 1945, such as India, Bangladesh and Nigeria." The official went on to say that this is to promote ‘community cohesion’ in the UK. Of this, more later.

While seated one night at the computer,
I was weary and ill at ease;
My fingers wandered idly,
Over the silent keys…

I knew not what I was writing,
Or what I was dreaming then,
But I dream'd a vision of hell, 
With the sound of a great Amen
(apologies to Adelaide Ann Proctor and Sir Arthur Sullivan)

Here's my recollection of that  vision of hell. And yes, I had been drinking. Since 1801hrs (getting the ice cubes out took longer than I thought)
Imagine the scene. Forget Hellraiser I, II, III or The Human Centipede. This is much, much worse. Danny Boyle has been commissioned by the BBC to direct the official opening of UK's 1914 Great War centenary commemorations. It's the O2 Arena. Cue dry ice, laser beams, the works. 

Scene 1 -  African dancing troupes and people in wheelchairs playing basketball, accompanied by some Benjamin Zephaniah poems.
Scene 2 - Anjem Choudary goes into an elaborate dance/rap routine with backing choir made up of BBC Question Time audience.

Scene 3 - the sound of artillery fire: more dry ice, and pretend smoke; a back projection of abused Edwardian feminists; an octet of obviously homosexual WWI infantrymen mince and camp their way around the stage to the music of the 1917 hit, A Bachelor Gay Am I  from The Maid Of The Mountains.
Scene 4 - A mock-up of the BBC Radio 4 Today studio. Guest editors George Galloway, Len McLusky and Dame Polly Toynbee of Tuscany recreate the outbreak of The Great War as it might have been covered by a 21st century news and current affairs show. A live link is established to a British trench, wrecked by a direct hit from a German shell. Ace reporter Rachel Burden asks a dying infantryman, "Give our listeners at home some idea of how it feels to have your legs blown off.."
Scene 5 - An awesome finale. A mixture of transgender awareness ribbons and white poppies flutters down on the audience. The audience gasps as Owen Jones and Diane Abbott appear, and enact a sensuous and passionate tango, symbolising the plight of workers in the third world. Finally, the audience is asked to stand and join in a rousing chorus of Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika, led by The Choir of The Gay Postal Workers' Rainbow Collective.

SATIRE IS NOT DEAD. Well, judging by the previous few hundred words, it may still be breathing, but it is pretty terminal, and a priest has been summoned. My serious point. In August, one hundred years ago but one million tears ago, tens of thousands of young men from England, Scotland, Wales, and both ends of Ireland went to war. Small contingents from various colonies and allies threw in their lot against German expansionism - India and Portugal to name but two - but our greatest support came from Canada, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa despite their having no dog in this particular fight. Their death toll: Canada - 62,000. Australia - 61,000. New Zealand - 18,000. South Africa - 12,500. Still, as I mentioned at the top of this blog, we wouldn't want any of our more recent guests to feel left out, so let's just forget about the lads from Toronto, Ottowa, Melbourne, Adelaide, Christchurch, Wellington, Jo'burg and Pretoria.

One Of The Old Platoon (Will Dyson, Australian War Memorial)

And then we have France. La Belle France. Frequently vilified by the ill-informed and partially-educated, the men of France were not 'surrender artists', but bore the brunt of German aggression. Alsace-Lorraine, Craonne, Verdun, Champagne - village after village was flattened. Britain's dead were numbered in the hundreds of thousands. Les Morts de France were numbered in the millions.
In conclusion, if someone is unwise enough to approach you with the suggestion that the 1914 centenary is an opportunity to celebrate gender awareness, diversity, the green agenda, multiculturalism, rainbow nations, or some other chattering-class, Sunday supplement conceit, I suggest you gently but firmly separate them from their reduced fat latte, upend the drink over their head, and kick them sharply where their balls would be, if they had any.