Читать книгу The Anatomy of Murder - Helen Simpson - Страница 10

THE name of Constance Kent and the nature of the extraordinary crime to which she eventually confessed are familiar to almost everybody. For this reason I do not propose to give a detailed description of the crime itself. To those who wish to peruse it more fully, many sources are available.¹ My present purpose is to deal with the curious personality of the criminal herself in the light of information which has become available during the past few years.

A brief résumé of the crime may, however, be found convenient. Mr. Samuel Saville Kent had at one time been in business in the City of London. About 1834 he obtained the appointment of Sub-Inspector of Factories for the West of England, which was then the important centre of the cloth trade. In the year 1860 he was living at Road Hill House, on the border of Somerset and Wiltshire. The house stands back from the road, by which it is approached by a carriage drive. It is of a fair size, and then stood in about half an acre of ground laid out as lawn, shrubbery, kitchen-garden and flower-garden. On the right-hand side of the house, looking from the drive, was a spacious paved courtyard communicating with the kitchen and domestic offices on the one side, and on the other with the kitchen-garden. Two pairs of large and high gates opened out of the yard, one pair into a lane running parallel to the side of the house, the other into the carriage drive. Outside the latter gates and to the right of them, was a small shrubbery, concealing a detached earth-closet. At the period of the crime this closet was rarely used, the house having been fitted with inside sanitation.

On the evening of Friday, June 29, 1860, the house was occupied by twelve individuals. These were Mr. Kent; his second wife, who was then expecting a confinement; three daughters: Mary Ann, Elizabeth and Constance; and a son, William, of Mr. Kent’s first marriage. Two daughters, Mary Amelia and Emilie, and a son, Francis Saville, of Mr. Kent’s second marriage. The cook, the housemaid and the nurse, by name Elizabeth Gough. On this particular evening there was no deviation from the routine of the house. Mr. and Mrs. Kent slept in a room on the first floor. This room was in the front of the house. Separated from it by a fairly wide passage at the end of which was a dressing-room, was the nursery. In the nursery slept Elizabeth Gough and the two younger children of the second marriage: Francis Saville, aged four, and Emilie, aged two. Mary Amelia, eldest child of the second marriage, slept in the room occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Kent. The remaining rooms on the first floor were unoccupied. On the second floor the two eldest daughters of the first marriage, Mary Ann and Elizabeth, slept together in the room above that occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Kent. Constance Kent slept alone in the adjoining room, above the passage and the dressing-room. The cook and housemaid slept together in the room adjoining hers above the nursery. It is worthy of remark that the partitions between these three rooms were very thin and there is abundant evidence that sounds originating in one room could be heard in that next door. On this floor, looking out at the back of the house, was the room occupied by William Kent. Two other rooms were unoccupied.

At the usual hour, which was half-past seven, Elizabeth Gough put the youngest child Emilie to bed in the nursery. Half an hour later she put Francis Saville to bed, also in the nursery. The remainder of the family retired in rotation. Before the cook went to bed she fastened and secured the domestic offices. Similarly, before she went to bed, the housemaid fastened and secured the remainder of the ground floor, including a french window in the drawing-room which looked out towards the back of the house. The nurse went to bed a little before eleven, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Kent in the dining-room. She was some time in the nursery before she undressed, having her supper and tidying up. While she was thus occupied Mrs. Kent came into the room and looked at the children asleep in bed. Mrs. Kent then went downstairs and came up to bed a few minutes later. Until this moment the nursery door had been open in order that the nurse might hear any sound from the child who was sleeping in the Kent’s room. As she went to bed, Mrs. Kent shut this door. Mr. Kent was the last to retire. He went to bed a little before midnight, having, according to his own subsequent statement, examined all the fastenings in the house.

At five o’clock the next morning the nurse awoke. She looked at Francis’ cot and found that he was no longer there. This occasioned her no surprise at the time. She supposed that during the night Mrs. Kent had heard the child crying and had come in and removed him to her own room. This supposition was strengthened by the fact that the bedclothes of the cot had been neatly re-arranged. The nurse then went to sleep again.

At a quarter or twenty minutes to seven, the nurse went into Mrs. Kent’s room. Supposing that Mrs. Kent had both Mary Amelia and Francis, her object was to ask for one of them so that she might dress it. She knocked twice on the door but obtained no answer, and in view of Mrs. Kent’s condition thought it better to disturb her no further. However, she made another attempt at a quarter-past seven, when she found Mrs. Kent dressed in her dressing-gown. On that occasion Mrs. Kent told her that she had not seen the child. The nurse then went upstairs to the second floor to make inquiries of Mary Ann and Elizabeth. At the time of Constance Kent’s appearance before the magistrates, the nurse gave the following evidence upon this point:

Miss Constance slept in a room which is between where her two sisters sleep and where the cook and housemaid sleep. The partition between them is very thin. You can even hear a paper rustling in either room. When I went to inquire of the Misses Kent the prisoner came to the door. I observed nothing unusual in her manner at the time.¹

Meanwhile the housemaid had made a significant discovery. This is best described in her own words.¹

On Friday evening I fastened the door and shutters in the drawing-room as usual. I am positive that I did so. I have no doubt in the matter whatever. The shutters fasten with iron bars and each has two brass bolts besides. That was all made secure on Friday evening. The door has a bolt and a lock and I bolted it and turned the key of the lock, so that anyone coming from the house would have the power of unfastening the door and windows and anyone coming in from the outside must smash the windows and then would not be able to open the shutters without using a centre bit or making a hole in the shutters. On Friday evening I retired to bed about a quarter to eleven and rose about five minutes past six on Saturday morning. Mr. Kent was the last person who went to bed that evening. He is in the habit of staying till the last.

When I came down in the morning, I saw that the drawing-room door was a little open, the bolt was back and the lock turned. There was no displacement of the furniture in the room. Of the windows, the lower shutters were open, the bolts being back and the window slightly open. There was no blood, footmarks or displacement in the room.

Search within the house having proved unavailing, the alarm was given. Mr. Kent himself took horse and started for Trowbridge, some five miles away, to inform the superintendent of police. The neighbours were called in to assist the search. Two of these found the missing child. His body was in the earth-closet beside the shrubbery. The throat had been cut, almost severing the head from the body, and there was a deep wound in the breast. The body was wrapped in a bloodstained blanket which had been taken from its cot. Mr. Kent was recalled and a doctor was summoned. On his arrival he, Dr. Parsons, saw that the child had been dead at least five hours. The consensus of medical opinion subsequently agreed that death must have taken place about 1 a.m. on Saturday morning.

The investigation into the crime was at first carried out without the slightest attempt at method. Mr. Henry Rhodes, in his Some Persons Unknown¹ says:

In this affair, the search seems to have been carried out with great negligence and indiscriminately by the police and the neighbours, while the interrogation of the members of the family left a great deal to be desired. Scientific methods, whether in the matter of taking evidence or in the discovery of clues, were not then popular.

This was no exaggeration. The local constable, though an early visitor to the scene, took no steps to preserve such clues as might exist. He seems to have departed almost immediately to inform his superiors. Meanwhile, the excited villagers took every advantage of their opportunity. To quote a contemporary account¹:

The house and premises were then minutely searched. Male and female searchers in the course of the day examined every individual and every room, box and water-closet about the place, emptied the earth-closet and scoured the vicinity, but without finding any knife or garment stained with blood, or any article to afford the least clue, except a piece of flannel apparently worn as a chest protector which was underneath the child’s body stained with blood.

It was hardly to be expected that the zeal of these amateurs should be rewarded by success.

The inquest was held upon the following Monday. The foreman of the jury was a local parson, a close friend of Mr. Kent and his family. He seems to have done his best to shield the family from any breath of the suspicions which had already been aroused. The coroner seems to have sympathized with his attitude. No member of the family was called upon to give evidence until a protest was made by a majority of the jury. The coroner reluctantly acceded to their request. He said:

I must say, I do not see what end will be answered by it. They will only confirm what we have already heard and say they know no more about it. But it is the wish of the majority of the jury, it must be done.

The jury then requested that Constance and William Kent might be examined. The evidence given by Constance Kent on this occasion will be considered later. The coroner then recommended the jury to record a verdict of murder by some person or persons unknown. The majority of the jurymen were not inclined to accept this advice, but were over-ruled by their foreman. This verdict was actually returned after the inquest had lasted five hours—an hour and a half of which, it is stated, were spent by the jury in examining the body.

The next step in the investigation of the crime was an inquiry by the Trowbridge Bench, which had for its ostensible purpose the examination of witnesses. This inquiry opened on July 9th and was continued at intervals until the 27th. During this period one of the magistrates approached the Home Secretary and, as a result, Inspector Whicher, an officer of Scotland Yard, was sent to Road to assist in the investigations.

Whicher was an extremely able man. He did not arrive on the scene until a fortnight after the crime had been committed, but he set to work methodically to examine such clues as still remained. As a result he accumulated evidence which seemed to him to point to Constance Kent as the culprit. At his instance she was arrested. After being in custody for a week, she appeared before the magistrate and was triumphantly acquitted. Local opinion was not favourable to Whicher. In its eyes Constance Kent had been martyred in the cause of officialdom. Loud applause greeted the announcement of the chairman of the Bench that the prisoner should be released on her father becoming bound for her on £200, to appear when called upon.

Whicher returned to London to be overwhelmed with censure for arresting an innocent girl. But none the less he remained convinced of her guilt. On November 23rd of the same year he wrote to the Chief Superintendent of the Bristol police upon the subject. In the course of this letter he said:

Now, in my opinion, if there was ever one man to be pitied or who has been more calumniated than another, that unfortunate man is Mr. Kent. It was bad enough to have his darling child cruelly murdered, but to be branded as the murderer is far worse, and, according to the present state of public opinion, he will be so branded till the day of his death unless a confession is made by the person whom I firmly believe committed the deed. I have little doubt that the confession would have been made if Miss Constance had been remanded for another week.

The next sensation connected with the case was an extraordinary one. An unemployed mason who eventually gave his name as John Edmond Gagg, accosted a railway policeman at Wolverton station in Buckinghamshire and confessed to the crime. He was taken to Trowbridge and there examined by the magistrate. Short examination showed that never in his life had he been to Road and that he was many miles away at the commission of the crime.

The next step was the opening of an inquiry by Mr. Slack, a solicitor practising in Bath. Mr. Slack refused to divulge by which authority he acted. All he would say was that “those who instructed him had the authority by the Home Office for so doing.” His inquiry opened on September 17th and, apparently as the result of it, the local police took action. Elizabeth Gough had left Mr. Kent’s service by this time and had gone to her home at Isleworth. She was there arrested, brought to Trowbridge, and formally charged with the murder of Francis Saville Kent. At her appearance before the magistrate no further evidence was produced. The Bench had no option but to release her. The remarks of the chairman on this occasion are interesting:

The magistrate has determined on not committing the prisoner for trial although there was a case of grave suspicion against her, and material had been adduced which with additions might hereafter be brought to bear against her. They would bind her accordingly to appear when called on in two sureties of £50 each.

On November 3rd one of the magistrates, Mr. Saunders, opened an inquiry upon his own account. He examined a number of witnesses, and in spite of, or perhaps because of, the irregularity of his proceedings he elicited certain very curious facts. For this reason the record of his proceedings is worthy of perusal in spite of its farcical nature.¹ But it led to no definite results and was finally abandoned.

Meanwhile Mr. Slack had not been idle. On November 26th an application was made by the Attorney-General at the Court of Queen’s Bench before the Lord Chief Justice for a writ for a better inquest on the body of Francis Saville Kent. The Solicitor-General appeared on behalf of the writ, and Sir Fitzroy Kelly represented the coroner in opposing it. The latter gained the day. The Lord Chief Justice said that the only grounds upon which the application rested was the allegation of misconduct on the part of the coroner, in the single instance of his not accepting the offer spontaneously made by the solicitor of Mr. Kent and not examining Mr. Kent. His Lordship said he thought the coroner would have exercised the sounder discretion if he had accepted the offer, but it was not for a mere error of judgment that this court would set aside an inquisition demanded by a coroner’s jury. If there had been judicial misconduct of a nature to justify the court to set aside the inquisition, it would still be a question whether that should be done and a new inquisition issued, when it was seen what the object was, viz., to examine those among whom the guilt of the crime necessarily rested, to ascertain from their separate depositions which of whom had committed the crime. That would not be a proper exercise of the jurisdiction of this court. To issue such an inquisition to obtain evidence against them for that was an object which the law would not sanction. The rule was discharged.

After this the investigation was abandoned. Mr. Kent and his family left Road Hill House and settled at Weston-super- Mare. The contents were sold by auction, and an enormous crowd attended the sale. The object of the members of the crowd was not to bid but to inspect the earth-closet. It is recorded that

Superintendent Foley was often requested to gratify the eager curiosity of the visitors by showing it. The spots of blood on the floor are still there, and it was strange to see young and fashionably dressed ladies seeking to learn every particular and see every spot connected with the murder.¹

Four years later, on April 25, 1865, Constance Kent surrendered herself at Bow Street Police Court and confessed to the murder of Francis Saville Kent.

Constance Kent was the ninth child of Samuel Saville Kent’s first marriage. In 1829 Mr. Kent had married Mary Ann Winder, and by her had ten children, five of whom died shortly after birth. At the date of the crime four of these children were still living, Mary Ann, Elizabeth, Constance, and William. Constance had been born at Sidmouth in February 1844. It is alleged² by Dr Stapleton, who subsequently became a friend of the family, that her mother had exhibited symptoms of insanity as early as 1836. According to his account, these symptoms were not very serious. He says, however, that “the early treatment of Mrs. Kent appears to have been most lamentably deficient and abortive.”

Six years later, however, Mr. Kent decided to employ a capable woman to superintend the children and the household. But the fact of Mrs. Kent’s insanity has been questioned. A single quotation³ will suffice to exemplify the doubt which has been thrown upon the matter.

Was Mrs. Kent insane? Her two eldest daughters always vehemently denied it. No act has ever been mentioned to prove it. The second governess, who was employed for the education of the two eldest daughters, arrived about the time of John’s birth in 1842. She was a pretty, very capable woman. Considering Mrs. Kent’s frequent confinements, also several miscarriages, and that servants took advantage of the circumstances, was it anything out of the way that Mr. Kent was only too glad to find someone willing and able to superintend the menage? Many wives are incompetent or unwilling as housekeepers, but they are not therefore deemed insane. As Mr. Kent only ceased to live with her about two years later, did he then consider her so?

When Constance was four years old the family moved to Walton, between Clevedon and Portishead in Somersetshire. They remained here four years, and in March 1852 moved once more, this time to Baynton House, near Corsham in Wiltshire. A few weeks after this move Mrs. Kent died. In August 1853 Mr. Kent took as his second wife the governess-housekeeper, Miss Pratt. In 1855 the family moved to Road Hill House, where the four children of the second marriage were born. The second of these was Francis Saville, who was born in August 1856.

At the time of Francis’ birth, Constance was twelve, and from various sources something may be gathered of her childhood. Mr. Stapleton says¹:

For many months after her birth great apprehensions were entertained that Constance would share the fate of the four previous children of Mrs. Kent. That she struggled through the feebleness of her early infancy is chiefly due to the devotion and personal attention of Miss Pratt, by whom she was fed, nursed and waited upon for months. By degrees her bodily constitution assumed that healthy development and growth which has bestowed on her the contour and command of a powerful physique. As she grew up Constance manifested a strong, obstinate and determined will, and her conduct even as a little child gave evidence of an irritable and impassioned nature.

1 Op. cit.

The document already quoted¹ draws a vivid picture of the relations between Constance and Miss Pratt.

The governess had made a great pet of Constance and was very fond of her, but soon trouble began. The governess had a theory that once a child said a letter or spelt a word right it could not forget it, and she conscientiously believed that it was her duty to treat any lapse as obstinacy. The letter H gave Constance many hours of confinement in a room where she listened longingly to the music and the sights on the lawn outside. When words were to be mastered punishments became more severe. Days were spent shut up in a room with dry bread and milk and water for tea. At other times she would be stood up in a corner of the hall sobbing, “I want to be good, I do, I do,” till she came to the conclusion that goodness was impossible for a child and that she could only hope to grow up quickly as grown-ups were never naughty. At times she gave way to furious fits of temper and was locked away in a distant room and sometimes in a cellar that her noise might not annoy people.

Constance did not take her punishments very seriously, but generally managed to get some amusement out of them. Once after being particularly provocative and passionate, the governess put her down in a dark wine cellar. She fell on a heap of straw and fancied herself in the dungeon of a great castle, a prisoner taken in a battle fighting for Bonnie Prince Charlie and to be taken to the block next morning. When the governess unlocked the door and told her to come up she was looking rather pleased over her fancies. The governess asked her what she was smiling about: “Oh,” she said, “only the funny rats.”

“What rats? “said the governess, who did not know there were any there.

“They do not hurt me. Only dance and play about.”

After that, to her disappointment she was shut in the beer cellar, a light room but with a window too high to look out of. She managed to pull the spigot out of a cask of beer. After that, she was locked up in one of two spare rooms at the end of the vestibule, shut off by double doors. She liked the big room, for it had a large four-poster bed she could climb about, but the little room was dreary. The rooms had a legend attached to them and were said to be haunted on a certain date when a blue fire burned in the fireplace.

At one time at Baynton House Constance’s place of punishment was in one of the empty garrets. The house was built in the shape of an E, and there was a parapet round the best part of the house. She used to climb out of the window and up the bend to the top of the roof and slide down the other side. She tied an old fur across her chest to act the monkey and call it playing Cromwell. To return she got through the window of another garret. The governess was puzzled at always finding the door unlocked with the key left in. The servants were questioned, but of course knew nothing. One day she found Constance and her brother out on the ledge, and told them not to do it as it was dangerous. Next time when she did climb out she found the window fastened. She could not climb back the way she came, but just where the parapet ended was the window of a room where the groom slept. She reached across and climbed through, and though she upset and broke a jug on the washstand, the cat got the credit for this. Afterwards, she heard that her father did not approve of the window being fastened to trap her, and said that when unruly she could be shut in the study, the room where her father wrote and kept his papers. Being on the ground floor she easily got out of the window and passed her time climbing the trees in the shrubbery, also displaying a very cruel disposition by impaling slugs and snails on sticks in trees, calling these crucifixions. The affection between Constance and the governess no longer existed.

Meanwhile, Miss Pratt’s position in the household had become the subject of unfavourable comment. Mr. Kent’s eldest surviving son, Edward, nine years older than Constance, seems to have been the first to express disapproval. It is reported that one morning when he was at home at Sidmouth on his holidays, he met his father coming out of the governess’s room which happened to be next to his. A scene took place between father and son, as a result of which the latter was promptly sent back to school. After this Edward was very rarely at home. He took to the sea as a profession, and died at Havana of yellow fever in 1858.

At this time Constance was too young to notice anything of this. But as she grew up her childish recollections began to assume significance. She realized that there had been something mysterious about the treatment of her mother.

Why did her mother, when speaking to her, often call herself, your poor mamma, which the governess said was silly? Why was the governess taken out for drives and her mother never? Why was her father in the library with the governess while the rest of the family was with her mother? She remembered many little incidents which seemed strange. One was during a thunderstorm, when the governess acted as though she were frightened and rushed over to her father who drew her down on his knee and kissed her. The governess exclaimed: “Oh, not before the child!” Though her mother seemed to feel being placed in the background, why did she not resent it and assert herself?¹

The relations between Mr. Kent and the governess can only be conjectural and they do not concern us directly. But in the light of subsequent events, we are bound to consider the effect of them upon a child of the passionate nature of Constance. An antagonism developed between the two, which increased after Mr. Kent’s second marriage. By this time her stepmother seems to have given Constance up in despair, and made no attempt to propitiate her. In any case, Constance would have been a difficult child to propitiate if contemporary accounts of her are to be believed. On the other hand, the second Mrs. Kent seems to have shown very little sympathy with the children of the first family. These were kept under constant surveillance and their friendships very strictly regulated. On one occasion the two eldest girls made friends with the daughters of two neighbouring families, but as these families showed a reluctance to call upon the Kents, probably owing to their disapproval of Mrs. Kent, orders were issued that these friendships must cease and the prohibition was extended to the younger children.

One day when Constance and her brother were supposed to be attending to their little garden behind the shrubbery, they heard some merry laughter from the neighbouring garden. They went to the hedge and looked over longingly at the children playing with visitors. They were invited to join, but were afraid. They were seen and their disobedience punished. The little gardens were uprooted and trampled down. Constance made some futile efforts to revive hers. No pets were allowed, two little tropical birds sent by the eldest son to his sisters were confined to a cold back room and died.

There was no evidence of direct cruelty on the part of the second Mrs. Kent towards Constance. She seems to have misunderstood the child’s nature and Constance, in turn, was undoubtedly resentful of authority. At school she was perpetually in trouble, mainly through the deliberate perverseness of her attitude. She became, apparently as the result of her behaviour, the odd man out of the family. She certainly seems to have been a difficult child to get on with.

We are told¹ that she did not always come home for holidays. On one occasion when she did, no one took any notice. She might just have come in from a walk. She was sitting at a window rather disconsolately when her stepmother wanted her to do some mending. She refused, and her stepmother said:

“Do you know that only for me you would have remained at school? When I said you were coming one of your sisters exclaimed: ‘What, that tiresome girl!’ So you see, they do not want you.”

As a result of this kind of treatment she made up her mind that she was not wanted and that everyone was against her. She formed, for a girl of her age and period, the most extraordinary resolution. This was nothing less than to dress up as a boy and run away to sea. She had acquired considerable influence over her brother, William, who was a year younger than she was. Mr. Stapleton’s account² of her attempt to put her resolution into practice may well be quoted:

In this escapade, which was planned and executed by Constance, her younger brother William seems to have been a passive and compliant agent in his sister’s hands. During the holidays, June 1856, they had been at home from school together. Their holidays had already expired, but they had been kept at home for a few days longer pending the return of their father from an absence on business in Devonshire. There is no evidence to show that any recent or particular fracas had happened during Mr. Kent’s absence. But at all events, in the afternoon of the day before Mr. Kent’s return, Constance and William were not to be found. An alarm was at once raised. Search was made but without success.

Now comes rather a curious point. Constance needed a safe hiding-place for her own purposes. The earth-closet in the shrubbery occurred to her, whether or not for the first time it is impossible to say. We may continue the story in Mr. Stapleton’s own words:

After lunch on the day she left home, she went down to the closet in the shrubbery, put on some old clothes of her brother William’s which she had secreted and mended, and cut off her hair, which she flung with her own clothes into the vault of the closet. She then started with her brother on a walk of ten miles to Bath, where they arrived in the evening. They went to the Greyhound Hotel where they asked for beds.

Their appearance excited the suspicions of the landlady, and they were questioned by her. Constance was very self-possessed and even insolent in her manner and language. William soon broke down and burst into tears. He was placed in bed at the inn, and as nothing could be done with Constance, the police were called in and she was given into custody for the night. She allowed herself to be separated from her brother, and was taken to the Central Police Station where she spent the night in the common detention room, maintaining the most resolute bearing and a determined silence as to her history. Early in the morning their father’s servant discovered them and took them home. Upon Mr. Kent’s return the same day, William at once expressed the greatest sorrow and contrition and sobbed bitterly. Constance for many days continued in solitude and gave no evidence of regret or shame at her conduct. At last she said she wished to be independent, and her object appears to have been to reach Bristol and to leave England with her brother.

That a girl of twelve should have behaved with so much-resolution is almost incredible. The incident, however, is confirmed from many other sources. Constance possessed both shrewdness and determination, and was not likely to let any consideration whatever stand in her way. Shortly after this, she was sent to another school, kept by relatives of the second Mrs. Kent. It was hoped, perhaps, that they would be able to tame the intractable child. But all efforts in this direction failed. She took a delight in scandalizing her new teachers, and it would appear that after some months they refused to take charge of her any longer. Yet another attempt was made. Constance was sent as a boarder to Beckington, a village within a mile of two of the Kents’ house. Here she remained off and on until shortly before the commission of the crime.

It is now time to consider the attitude adopted by Constance during the investigations which followed the crime. Her first appearance was as a witness at the inquest on July 2nd. On this occasion she is described as “a robust young lady, rather tall for her age”, and we are told “that she gave her evidence in a subdued but audible tone, without betraying any special emotion, her eyes fixed on the ground”.¹ Answering the questions of the coroner she declared that she knew nothing about this affair until her brother was found. About half-past ten on Friday night she had gone to bed and she knew nothing until after eleven o’clock. She generally slept soundly. She did not leave her bed during the night. She did not know of anyone having any spite against the boy. There had been no disagreement in the house, and she was not aware of anyone owing any grudge against the deceased, The nurse had always been kind and attentive to him. On Saturday morning she heard that he was dead. She was then getting up.

We have already seen that the news reached her through the nurse’s visit to her sisters’ room which was next door to her own.

The next public appearance of Constance was in the dock before the Trowbridge magistrates after her arrest by Inspector Whicher. Whicher had put into practice the principles of sound detection. He had arrived at Constance’s guilt by simple deduction. How he had done so, may shortly be stated in his own words.²

Whoever did the deed, doubtless did it in their nightclothes. When Constance Kent went to bed that night she had three nightdresses belonging to her in the house. After the murder she had but two. What then became of the third? It was not lost in the wash as it was so craftily endeavoured to make it appear, but it was lost in some other way. Where is it, then, and what became of it?

The evidence on the subject of this nightdress must be given at some length. Sarah Cox, the housemaid, deposed as follows.¹

I had to collect dirty linen from the room on Monday morning. That of Miss Constance is generally thrown down either in the room or on the landing, some of it on Sunday and some of it on Monday. It was so on this occasion, Monday, July 2nd. I found a nightdress of hers on the landing on Monday morning, and took it down with the rest to the lumber-room on the first floor to sort it out. I then called Miss Kent to come and put the number on the book. [This Miss Kent was Mary Ann, the eldest daughter.] I perfectly remember putting this nightdress of Miss Constance’s in the basket after the murder. I left the basket in the lumber-room when I went down to the inquest about eleven o’clock with the nurse. Mr. and Mrs. Kent, the three young ladies, Master Kent, the young children, and the cook remained in the house. The baskets were covered up with the kitchen tablecloth and Mrs. Kent’s dress, and the lumber-room was not locked. The laundress was to come for them about twelve or one o’clock that day. I know that I put three nightdresses into one basket and beside them Miss Elizabeth Kent made up her own bundle for herself. Miss Constance came to the door of the lumber-room after the things were in the basket, but I had not quite finished packing them. She asked me if I would look in her slip pocket and see if she had left her purse there. I looked in the basket and told her it was not there. She then asked me to go down and get her a glass of water. I did so, and she followed me to the top of the back stairs as I went out of the room. I found her there when I returned with the water, and I think I was not gone near a minute, for I went very quickly. The lumber-room is on the same floor as the nursery. She drank the water and went up the other back stairs towards her own room. There was no further conversation between us. I covered down the basket and did not return to it. It was on Tuesday evening that I heard of the missing nightshirt, and I have never seen it since.

In cross-examination Sarah Cox amplified her statement:

On Saturday, June 30th, I took down a clean nightdress of Miss Constance’s to be aired. I have heard that she had three altogether, but I did not know until after this. I took another clean nightdress to be aired on the following Saturday, Miss Constance’s nightdresses are easily distinguishable from the other Misses Kents’. I never look over the clothes when they come from the wash. The dirty one put into the basket on the Monday after the murder, and the two I aired would make the three. I am clear that these were all Miss Constance’s nightdresses. I did not observe any mark or stain upon the one that was put in the basket on the Monday, July 2nd. It appeared to have been dirtied as one would have been which had been nearly worn a week by Miss Constance.

The book in which the linen is entered is sent with clothes to the washerwoman. The clothes were entered in the book on the Monday after the murder by Miss Kent. On the Monday next after that, July 9th, the clothes were not sent to the wash in the usual way. Mrs. Holly is the name of the washerwoman to whom the clothes were sent on the Monday after the murder. The washerwoman would not have the clothes on July 9th, because there was some dispute about the nightdress. I first heard that the nightdress was missing on the Tuesday evening after the murder. A message was sent from Mrs. Holly’s daughter which I received from her. She said that there were three nightdresses put down on Mrs. Kent’s book and only two sent, and her mother said that it was Miss Constance’s that was missing and that I must send another as the policeman had been there that day to know if she had the same number of clothes sent that week as she always had, and that her mother had told him that she had. She said that her mother said that she must have another one sent, as she was afraid that the policeman was coming again and that if one was not sent, she must go to the policeman about it.

I told her that I was sure that she had made a mistake, as I was certain that I had put three nightdresses in the basket, and that I was quite sure one of those was Miss Constance’s. The clothes, including the nightdress worn by Miss Constance during the week after the murder were not sent to the wash at all. On the following Saturday, I believe, Miss Constance borrowed a nightdress of her sister’s, there being then the two dirty ones belonging to her in the house, which had been worn by her between June 30th and July 7th and 14th. I am certain that I put the nightdress of Miss Constance into the basket, but I can’t swear that it went out of the house, as I was not in the house at the time.

Mrs. Holly, the laundress, then gave evidence.

I recollect going for the clothes on the Monday after the murder. When I got to the house I saw the cook. We went upstairs to the spare room where the clothes were generally kept. The cook brought down one basket and I the other. I then secured the clothes in the basket and went out and called my daughter, Martha. The clothes were in the same state as I always receive them. Mrs. Kent’s dress was on one basket and something else on the other. I and my daughter went straight home with the clothes. We heard that there was a nightdress missing and we opened the basket within five minutes after we got home and found that one was missing. It was not our usual custom to open the clothes so soon after receiving them. We heard a rumour that the nightdress was missing.

Where this rumour originated is something of a mystery. The police, as will be seen, did not visit Mrs. Holly until the Tuesday after the murder. Superintendent Foley of Trowbridge searched Road Hill House on the morning of Saturday, June 30th, and requested Dr. Parsons to assist him. The latter, in his evidence before the inquiry said:

I accompanied Mr. Foley in searching the house and went into Miss Constance Kent’s room. I examined the linen in her drawers and the nightcap and nightgown which were on the bed. They were all perfectly free from any stains of blood. The nightdress was very clean, but I cannot say how long it had been worn.

It seems possible that Dr. Parsons may have been indiscreet. Perhaps he talked about the cleanliness of the nightgown and the obvious inference to be drawn from this. The rumour which reached Mrs. Holly’s ears can only be accounted for by some such inference.

Mrs. Holly said that she had not seen anything of the missing nightdress. Her house and her two daughters had been searched by the police for the dress without success.

I had the clothes home about twelve o’clock on the Monday following the murder, and in about five minutes after began to search for something that was missing. I did not say anything to the housemaid about anything being missing. I have three daughters. All three daughters were present when I examined the clothes that I brought from Mr. Kent’s. I went up to get my money the next day between eleven and twelve o’clock and saw Mrs. Kent about the missing dress the same evening. I was told then that they were quite sure that Miss Constance’s nightdress had been sent. The police came to my house the first time on the Tuesday evening. I am quite clear about it. Four constables came together and the parish constable as well. I was quite alarmed about it.

Mrs. Holly might well have been alarmed at such an invasion. But the police had not come to inquire about the nightdress, but to see whether Mrs. Holly could recognize the piece of flannel found with the body. Thus reassured, she decided to say nothing about the nightdress.

I knew the nightdress was missing at the time, but I did not say anything to them—the police—about it. I told them the clothes were all right by the book. They came to me about the nightdress on the next day. I was expecting the nightdress to be sent to satisfy the book, the same as the other clothes came sometimes.

No further evidence on this subject was adduced. It seemed to Whicher that quite enough had been said to show what had actually happened. The nightdress seen by Foley and Parsons on the morning after the murder was not the one which Constance had worn the previous night. It had been taken from her chest of drawers after the commission of the crime. This, after being worn on Saturday and Sunday night, was put into the washing basket. Having dispatched the housemaid for a glass of water Constance had abstracted it from the basket to make it appear that it had been lost in the wash. The nightdress in which she had actually committed the crime had been destroyed. She would thus have been found to be short of a nightdress and endeavour to account for this by making it appear that one had been lost in the wash.

The solicitor for the defence, however, contrived to push the evidence aside. He protested against the arrest of Constance on the grounds that “a paltry bedgown was missing”. He then proceeded to a vicious attack upon Whicher:

And where is the evidence? The sole fact—and I am ashamed in this land of liberty and justice to refer to it—is the suspicion of Mr. Whicher, a man eager in pursuit of the murderer and anxious for the reward that has been offered. And it is upon his suspicion, unsupported by the slightest evidence whatever, that this step has been taken. The prosecution’s own witnesses have cleared up the point about the bedgown, but because the washerwoman says that a certain bedgown was not sent to her, you are asked to jump to the conclusion that it was not carried away in the clothes basket.

But there can be no doubt in the mind of any person that the right number of bedgowns has been fully accounted for, and that this little peg upon which he seeks to hang this fearful crime has fallen to the ground. It rested on the evidence of the washerwoman only, and against that you have the testimony of several other witnesses. I do not wish to find fault with Mr. Whicher unnecessarily, but I think in the present instance, his professional eagerness in pursuit of the criminal has led him to take a most unprecedented course to prove a motive.¹

Constance appears to have displayed very little concern about her arrest. Whicher’s own statement² is evidence of her composure.

I have made an examination of the premises and I believe that the murder was committed by an inmate of the house. From many inquiries I have made and from information which I have received, I sent for Constance Kent on Monday last to her bed room, having first previously examined her drawers and found a list of her linen, which I now produce, on which are enumerated among other articles of linen, three nightdresses as belonging to her.

I said to her, “Is this a list of your linen?” and she replied, “Yes.” I then asked, “In whose handwriting is it?” and she answered, “It is in my own writing.” I said, “Here are three nightdresses. Where are they?” She replied, “I have two. The other was lost in the wash a week after the murder.” She then brought the two I now produce. I also saw a nightdress and a nightcap on her bed, and said to her, “Whose are these?” She replied, “They are my sister’s.” The nightdresses were only soiled by being worn.

This afternoon, I again proceeded to the house and sent for the prisoner in the sitting-room. I said to her: “I am a police officer, and I hold a warrant for your apprehension, charging you with the murder of your brother, Francis Saville Kent, which I will read to you.” I then read the warrant to her and she commenced crying and said, “I am innocent,” which she repeated several times. I then accompanied her to her bedroom where she put on her bonnet and mantle, after which I brought her to this place. She made no further remarks to me.

On the occasion of her examination before the magistrate, we are told that “at half-past eleven, Constance Emily Kent came in, walking with a faltering step, and going up to her father gave him a trembling kiss.”

Constance gave evidence before the magistrates on October 3rd, when the charge against Elizabeth was heard. On that occasion she said:

On Friday, the 29th of June, I was at home. I had been at home for about a fortnight. I had previously been to school as a boarder at Beckington. The little boy who was murdered was at home also. I last saw him in the evening when he went to bed. He was a merry, good-tempered lad, fond of romping. I was accustomed to play with him often. I had played with him that day. He appeared to be fond of me, and I was fond of him. I went to bed at about half-past ten in a room on the second floor, in a room between that of my two sisters and the two maidservants. I remember my sister Elizabeth coming into my room that night. I went to sleep soon after that. I was nearly asleep then. I next woke at about half-past six in the morning. I did not awake in the course of the night, and I heard nothing to disturb me. I got up at half-past six. I had some time after that heard of my brother being missing.

In reply to questions by the counsel for the prosecution Constance made the following statement:

On the night of the murder she had slept in her nightdress. She had slept in that nightdress since the previous Sunday or Monday. She usually wore the same nightdress for a week and changed it on Sunday or Monday. This was the same nightdress that she had worn on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. On the Saturday she had slept in the same nightdress she had worn on the previous night. She was not certain whether she had put the clean nightdress on, on the Sunday or the Monday. She did not know what had become of the nightdress of hers which was said to be missing. She had heard the prisoner go to her sisters’ door on Saturday morning to ask if they had the child with them or had taken it away. She was dressing at the time. She heard Elizabeth knock at the door, and went to her own door to listen to hear what it was. Her door was quite close to her sisters’. At that time she was nearly dressed.¹

It is, perhaps, unnecessary to recount the circumstances under which Constance actually confessed. We are told that,

she came under religious influence five years after the crime when, filled with deep sorrow and remorse, she told the clergyman of the case, that in order to free others of any suspicion cast on them it was her duty to make a public confession of her guilt. She was told she was right to obey her conscience and make any amends she could. Her life, if spared, could only be one long penance.²

Constance appeared before the Trowbridge Bench on April 26, 1865. A contemporary report says³:

She walked with a step which betrayed no emotion, but with downcast eyes and took her seat in the dock. Her conduct in the dock was at first marked by great composure. The past five years had wrought a considerable change in her appearance, she being taller and much more robust and womanly than when she was previously in this neighbourhood. Her deposition was as follows: “I wish to hand in of my own free will, a piece of paper with the following written on it in my own handwriting, ‘I, Constance Emily Kent, alone and unaided, did, on the night of the 29th of June, 1860, murder at Road Hill House, Wiltshire, one Francis Saville Kent. Before the deed, no one knew my intentions, nor after of my guilt. No one assisted me in the crime, nor in my evasion of discovery.’”

In reply to the chairman she replied that she had nothing further to say. The examination was adjourned and resumed on May 4th. Further evidence was taken at the conclusion of the proceedings, when Constance was asked if she desired to say anything in answer to the charge she shook her head and appeared as unmoved as during the greater part of the day. Constance appeared at the Wiltshire Assizes at Salisbury on July 21st. The proceedings were very brief. She pleaded guilty and declared that she was well aware of what the plea involved. Her counsel, Mr. Coleridge, stated that the prisoner wished to inform the court that she alone was guilty of the murder and that she wished to make her guilt known and atone for the crime with the view of clearing the character of others of any suspicion that might have been unjustly attached to them. It afforded him pleasure to have the melancholy duty of stating that there was no truth whatever in the report that the prisoner was induced to perpetrate the crime because of the harsh treatment received at the hands of her stepmother, for Miss Constance Kent had always received the most uniform kindness from that lady, and on his honour he believed it to be true.

She was sentenced to death; but, some days later, the sentence was commuted to one of penal servitude for life.

It was known that Constance had made a full confession to a Dr. Charles Bucknill, who had examined her for the purpose of ascertaining her mental condition, and to her solicitor, Mr. Rod-way, in Trowbridge. It was Constance’s desire that this confession should be made public, and at the end of August Dr. Bucknill published the following letter.¹

I am requested by Miss Constance Kent to communicate the following details of her crime which she has confessed to Mr. Rodway, her solicitor, and to myself, and which she now desires to be made public.

Constance Kent first gave an account of the circumstances of her crime to Mr. Rodway, and she afterwards acknowledged to me the correctness of that account when I recapitulated it to her. The explanation of her motive she gave to me when, with the permission of the Lord Chancellor, I examined her for the purpose of ascertaining whether there were any grounds for supposing that she was labouring under mental disease. Both Mr. Rodway and I are convinced of the truthfulness and good faith of what she has said to us.

Constance Kent says that the manner in which she committed her crime was as follows:

A few days before the murder she obtained possession of a razor from a green case in her father’s wardrobe and secreted it. This was the sole instrument which she used. She also secreted a candle and matches by placing them in the corner of the closet in the garden where the murder was committed. On the night of the murder she undressed herself and went to bed because she expected that her sisters would visit her room. She lay awake watching till she thought the household were all asleep, and soon after midnight she left her bedroom and went downstairs and opened the drawing-room door and window shutters.

She then went up to the nursery, withdrew the blanket from between the sheet and the counterpane and placed it on the side of the cot. She then took the child from his bed and carried him downstairs to the drawing-room. She had on her nightdress and in the drawing-room she put on her galoshes. Having the child in one arm she raised the drawing-room window with the other hand and went round the house and into the closet, the child being wrapped in the blanket and still sleeping, and while the child was in this position, she inflicted the wound in the throat. She says that she thought the blood would never come and the child was not killed, so she thrust the razor into its left side and put the body with the blanket round it into the vault. The light burnt out. The piece of flannel which she had with her was torn from an old flannel garment placed in the wastebag, and which she had taken some time before and sewed it to use for washing herself.

She went back into her bedroom, examined her dress and found only two spots of blood on it. These she washed out in the basin, and threw the water, which was but little discoloured, into the footpan in which she had washed her feet overnight. She took another of her nightdresses and got into bed. In the morning her nightdress had become dry where it had been washed. She folded it up and put it into the drawer. Her three nightdresses were examined by Mr. Foley, and she believes also by Dr. Parsons, the medical attendant of the family. She thought the bloodstains had been effectively washed out, but on holding the dress up to the light a day or two afterwards she found the stains were still visible. She secreted the dress, moving it from place to place, and eventually burned it in her own bedroom, and put the ashes or cinders into the kitchen grate. It was about five or six days after the child’s death that she burnt the nightdress.

On the Saturday morning, she having cleaned the razor, she took an opportunity of replacing it unobserved in a case in the wardrobe. She abstracted the nightdress from the clothes-basket when the housemaid went to fetch a glass of water. The strange garment found in the boiler hole had no connexion whatever with these. As regards the motive of her crime, it seems that although she entertained at one time a great regard for the present Mrs. Kent, yet if any remark was at any time made which in her opinion was disparaging any member of the first family, she treasured it up and determined to revenge it. She had no ill-will against the little boy except that as one of the children of her stepmother. She declared that both her father and her stepmother had always been kind to her personally, and the following is a copy of the letter which she addressed to Mr. Rodway on this point while in prison before her trial:

DEVIZES, May 15th

Sir,—It has been stated that my feelings of revenge were excited in consequence of cruel treatment. This is entirely false. I have received the greatest kindness from both the persons accused of subjecting me to it. I have never had any ill-will towards either of them on account of their behaviour to me which has been very kind. I shall be obliged if you will make use of this statement in order that the public may be undeceived on this point.

I remain, Sir,

Yours most truly,

CONSTANCE E. KENT

She told me that when the nursemaid was accused she had fully made up her mind to confess if the nurse had been convicted, and that she had also made up her mind to commit suicide if she her- self was detected. She said that she had felt herself under the influence of the devil before she committed the murder, but that she did not believe and had not believed that the devil had more to do with her crime than he had with any other wicked action. She had not said her prayers for a year before the murder and not afterwards till she came to reside at Brighton. She said that the circumstances which revived religious feelings in her mind was thinking about receiving sacrament when confirmed.

An opinion has been expressed that the peculiarities evinced by Constance Kent between the ages of twelve and seventeen may be attributed to the then transition period of her life. Moreover, the fact of her cutting off her hair and dressing herself in her brother’s clothes and leaving home with the intention of going abroad, which occurred when she was only thirteen years of age, indicated a peculiarity of disposition and great determination of character which foreboded that, for good or evil, her future life would be remarkable.

This peculiar disposition which led to such singular violent resolves and actions, seems also to colour and intensify her thoughts and feelings and magnify into wrongs that were to be revenged, any little incidents or occurrences which provoked her displeasure.

Although it became my duty to advise her Counsel that she evinced no symptoms of insanity at the time of my examination, and that so far as it was possible to ascertain the state of her mind at so remote a period, there was no evidence of it at the time of the murder, I am yet of the opinion that, owing to the peculiarities of her constitution, it is probable that under prolonged solitary confinement she would become insane.

The validity of this opinion is of importance now that the sentence of death has been commuted to penal servitude for life, for no one should desire that the punishment of the criminal should be so carried out as to cause danger of a further and greater punishment not contemplated by the law.

This confession, which is undoubtedly authentic, is a most extraordinary document. The first question which arises is naturally that of motive. When he arrested Constance in 1860, Inspector Whicher realized the difficulty of proving an adequate motive for the murder. He hoped to establish this by calling a Miss Emma Moody, a school friend of Constance’s. But Miss Moody’s evidence was disappointing. The following is a sufficient extract:

I have heard her make such remarks about the child as this, that she disliked the child and pinched it, but I believe more from fun than anything else, for she was laughing at the time she said it. It was not this child more than the others. She said that she liked to tease them, this one and his younger brothers and sisters. I believe it was through jealousy and because the parents showed great partiality. I have remonstrated with her on what she said. I was walking with her one day towards Road, and I said, “Won’t it be nice to go home for the holidays so soon.” She said, “It may be to your home but mine’s different.” She also led me to infer, but I don’t remember her precise words, that she did not dislike the child, but through the partiality shown by the parents the second family were much better treated than the first. I remember her saying that several times. We were talking about dress on some occasions and she said, “Mamma will not let me have anything I like, and if I said I would like a brown dress she would make me have black, and the contrary.” I remember no other conversation about the deceased child. She has only slightly referred to him.

This evidence was utterly inconclusive in supplying any motive for murder. Whicher was bitterly disappointed with it. He said later:¹ “The witness, Miss Moody, in reference to animus, did not give the evidence I was given to understand she could have done.”

But there is no doubt that Constance’s crime was directed, not against the victim, but against her stepmother.

She vowed she would avenge her mother’s wrong, if she devoted her life to it. After brooding over it for some time, she resolved that as her stepmother had robbed her mother of her father’s love, she would deprive her of something she loved best. She then planned and carried out her most brutal and callous crime, one so vile and unnatural that people could not believe it possible for a young girl.²

This last is probably as near the truth as it is possible to get. Constance wished to be revenged on her stepmother, but not for any wrongs that she herself directly suffered. Her immature mind had brooded upon the circumstances which she had observed during her childhood, and these circumstances developed themselves into the crime committed against her mother and the whole of the family. Her eldest brother had chosen the sea as a profession, probably because a seafaring life appealed to him. But Constance believed that he had done so merely to escape from the intrusion of Miss Pratt into the family circle. He had died abroad. To Constance this was a direct result of having been driven from home. There is plenty of evidence that the second family received preferential treatment by their parents. In Constance’s eyes this was magnified into a martyrdom of the children of the first Mrs. Kent. She believed that her younger brother, William, who shared her extraordinary escapade in 1876, was not to be given a fair chance in life. This may or may not have been true at the time. Certainly Mr. Kent evinced more interest in the prospects of his younger children. Finally, there was ever present in her mind a deep resentment at the position of authority achieved by a mere governess. She was old enough, at the time of the crime, to have formed the opinion that this position had been achieved by questionable means.

In her confession she insisted that she bore no ill-will towards her stepmother. This must be interpreted to mean that she bore no ill-will on account of any personal treatment which she had received from her. The clue to the motive appears to lie in another sentence of that confession.

Although she entertained at one time a great regard for the present Mrs. Kent, yet if any remark was at any time made which in her opinion was disparaging to any member of the first family, she treasured it up and was determined to revenge it.

One may perhaps realize the cumulative effect of such a determination on a child of Constance’s nature. She remembered every fancied slight. The second Mrs. Kent was not popular either with the neighbours or the servants. Constance must have heard a thousand suggestions that she was no better than she should be. Her final conclusions must have been that the household had been invaded by an immoral tyrant, who, owing to the influence she exercised over Mr. Kent, was secure from punishment. She felt this to be unjust. Punishment was deserved, and could be inflicted were anyone bold enough to assume the rôle of avenger.

Having decided that her stepmother must be punished, Constance must have reflected upon the form which the punishment should take. Punishment inflicted directly was obviously beyond her powers. But Mrs. Kent was devoted to her children, especially to the boy Francis. If anything should happen to Francis Mrs. Kent would feel the blow as acutely as though it had been directed at herself.

It does not seem to have occurred to Constance that the blow would be almost as acutely felt by her father, to whom she was apparently genuinely attached. Perhaps she believed that her father would soon recover from his sorrow at the death of his youngest son. Mr. Kent had endured such bereavements before without showing any signs of being overwhelmed by them. At the date of the crime he had already had thirteen children, and was expecting the arrival of a fourteenth. Five of these had died in their early infancy. Surely by this time such calamities must have lost their power to depress him unduly!

Constance appears to have experimented with the possibility of making away with Francis. There is very little doubt that she had determined upon the form which the punishment of Mrs. Kent was to take some time before 1860. It so happened that, one night some two years before the crime, Mrs. Kent, Constance, and the two children of the second marriage were the only occupants of the house besides the servants. Francis slept in the nursery with the nurse. During the night the nursery must have been entered, for in the morning Francis was found in his cot with the bedclothes stripped off and his bed-socks missing. It was never discovered how this happened. But Constance was believed to have been at the bottom of it and it was attributed to her well-known spirit of mischief. It was possible that she believed that the exposure of the child would cause his death. It is remarkable that this incident was not mentioned during the inquiry into the cause of the crime.

It is an axiom of criminal investigation that every confession, whether genuine or not, is open to suspicion on the grounds of detail. The criminal may be willing to confess but not, for some strange psychological reason, to reveal his methods. Constance’s confession appears to be no exception to this rule. It is almost incredible that she should have committed the crime by the method to which she confessed.

It is admitted that the methods of the local police in investigating the crime were elementary in the extreme. But the following facts are incontrovertible. Dr. Parsons, as soon as he saw the body, decided that the throat must have been cut with some sharp instrument. It is true that at the inquest he declared that the wound in the breast could not have been produced by a razor. But Dr. Parsons changed his opinion so frequently that too much reliance must not be placed upon his statement. In any case, on the Saturday morning, the idea of a sharp instrument was firmly impressed upon his mind. And he succeeded in conveying this impression to Superintendent Foley.