Damn His Blood (41 page)

‘You say that two people, a servant of Mr Hardcourt and a friend of yours, heard Clewes make this statement. Could you tell me where these people are?’

‘The girl is dead, and, I believe, the man in whose presence Clewes made use of this expression.’

A break was timetabled for early afternoon, but before it arrived a string of further witnesses stood to verify – beyond all of the efforts of Valentine Lee and Ebenezer Ludlow – that Parker was killed by Heming. The Captain’s old dairymaid Elizabeth Fowler informed the court about finding the shotgun ‘which Heming called for a week after’; a man called Gore explained that he had repaired a gun of the very same description for Heming in May 1806; and John Lench remembered disturbing him in the glebe with Parker’s smouldering body just a few feet away.

As Lench concluded his evidence, the court was suddenly distracted by a curiously comic moment. A mysterious letter had been rushed into the room addressed to one of the jurors. Confused by the unexpected arrival Littledale supposed it must relate to a domestic emergency and ordered the juror to read the communication at once. The judge’s fears were allayed when the man admitted the message was nothing more than a love letter full of ‘tender enquiries’ from his wife, who hoped he was coping with the stresses of his responsibility. The incident amused the court and mortified the juror.

By early afternoon journalists from
The Times
and
Morning Chronicle
⁷
had already dispatched their copy on the midday express from Worcester to London. Those in the capital would have to wait a further day and a half before the first tidings of the result came. In court, however, the prosecution’s pace was quickening. Thomas Colwell, Richard Page, landlord of the Virgin Tavern, Reverend Pyndar and Richard Allen of Droitwich were all asked to recall events on Midsummer Day 1806. Pyndar, now in his mid-seventies, appeared to be suffering from that ailment that renders memory more colourful with age. ‘I found Parker seated on the grass in a field, and I heard him draw his last sigh. He was supported on a chair by poor persons,’ the old clergyman said. It was clearly a muddled account, a sign either that Pyndar was losing his faculties or that the occasion had got the better of him – in any case it did not much matter.

Next the prosecution introduced a new sighting of Richard Heming on Midsummer Day. Thomas Hill was a farmer from Newtown, and he had run into Heming at the Virgin Tavern shortly after Richard Page served him a drink. Hill said that Heming did not rush away from the hostelry or head off on the Worcester road; he simply stood for some time, almost inanimate, at a gate. Could this have been the moment Heming chose to return to Oddingley? ‘He was standing there with his coat on his left hand,’ Hill remembered. ‘He was drinking, it was a blue coat.’ Hill was followed by John Perkins, a clear target for the defence. Perkins had reason to dislike his peers and Ludlow was keen to expose this. After revealing all he remembered about the Easter meeting and the left-handed toasts at the Plough, he was cross-examined viciously by the sergeant.

‘How long before Mr Parker’s death did you say that Clewes was paying for Heming’s drinks in the Red Lion at Droitwich?’

‘This was about five or six weeks before Mr Parker’s death. It is about 23 years ago, but I recall that it was five or six weeks,’ Perkins replied.

‘Are you sure of this? You stated to the coroner that it was five or six months,’ Ludlow rejoined.

‘I will not swear I did not say five or six months before the coroner. If the coroner did put down six months, it was a mistake.’

Ludlow continued to press the point, and Perkins, unnerved, managed to contradict himself several times. Finally, Ludlow demanded a straight answer. ‘I meant five or six weeks,’ Perkins stammered, displaying the first palpable emotion of the day. ‘Ah! Put your hat down and don’t be in a passion,’ Ludlow said, ‘for you won’t put me in one!’ Perkins was dismissed from the stand, still protesting.

The last witness connected to the first murder was Pennell Cole. Now almost 80 years old, the surgeon who had performed Parker’s autopsy had retired from Worcester Infirmary in 1815 and instantly re-enlisted in the army for the Waterloo campaign. Cole was a man of the old school, skilled and impressive. When his retirement eventually came he had settled in France on half-pay until in 1821 he had been appointed deputy inspector of British hospitals. Cole had travelled to Worcester that day from his house in Manchester. He provided a cogent and empirical description of Parker’s bloodied body and suggested that ‘a blunt instrument must have given the wound [on the head]’. There was no cross-examination – there seemed little point.

It was late afternoon. The court had heard about Burton’s discovery of the skeleton, the identification of the bones as Heming’s, the tithe dispute, the threats and the circumstances surrounding the first murder. Now the most important question lay before them. How had Heming been murdered and concealed in the barn at Netherwood? There was little evidence relating to this, and it was clear that Clewes’ confession would have to be raised soon. John Curwood relieved his deputies and took to the front of the courtroom. He called to the witness box a clerk from the firm of Parker and Smith in Worcester. Curwood asked the man to state his name.

‘I am James Hooper, a clerk to Messrs Parker and Smith. Mr Smith is the coroner.’

‘Were you present when Thomas Clewes made a confession?’ Curwood asked.

‘I was.’

‘And how was this confession made?’

‘Clewes was not brought before the coroner. He sent a request to Mr Smith and the jury to attend [at the gaol].’

Mr Lavender, governor of the gaol, was now called. He explained that he had written a note to Smith at Clewes’ instigation. The letter was produced and he testified that it was his hand. The note was read to the court.

Dear sir, – I have seen Thomas Clewes; he expresses a wish to see the Coroner and the Jury
at the prison
.

Respectfully yours,

J. N. Lavender.

Thereafter Lavender was cross-examined by Ludlow. He asked Lavender why the interview had taken place at the prison and not at the Talbot where the coroner’s inquest was ongoing. As governor, he had no contact with the prisoners, so who had passed the message between Clewes and himself? What was Reverend Clifton doing in the gaol? Had he interviewed Clewes before this note was written?

As befitting the governor of a gaol, Lavender’s answers were stark and to the point. He told Ludlow the note had been written at the express wish of Clewes. Reverend Clifton was at the gaol as a visiting magistrate, he explained, ‘coming with an understanding that if I wanted anything particular I was to apply to him’. And had there been any interviews? ‘I knew that previous to my writing that note to the coroner, an interview had taken place between Mr Clifton and Clewes,’ Lavender revealed. ‘I cannot tell exactly, but I think that it was more than one.’

Lavender had avoided explaining why the confession was taken at the prison instead of the Talbot, and Curwood, re-examining, offered him the opportunity to explain this decision. ‘The reason why the words
at the prison
are underlined is because I begged the coroner and jury to adjourn to the gaol. Mr Smith said he did not know that they could adjourn unless by the desire of Clewes. I went to Clewes and communicated this to him. He said it was all the same to him where he saw them.’

Curwood now sought to further underline why the confession was admissible. He had James Hooper recalled and asked him to explain the context in which Clewes’ statement was received.

Before the prisoner made any confession, Mr Smith addressed him in these words: ‘Thomas Clewes, it has been intimated to me that you wished to see myself and the Jury, and that you have something to communicate to us.’ Mr Clewes said ‘yes Sir.’ Mr Smith said, ‘it is my duty to inform you as one of His Majesty’s Coroners for this county that any confession, admission or deposition you make will be produced in evidence against you at the next Assizes, on a charge of the murder of Richard Heming, and that no hope or promise of pardon can be held out to you either by His Majesty’s Government or by any other person.’ Having been told this more than once by the coroner, he said, ‘well Sir, I shall state all I know about it,’ and then he made a confession which I took down in writing.

The case had arrived at a crucial juncture. If the confession was deemed admissible then all details of the murder in the barn could be brought before the jury: evidence against the Captain, James Taylor, George Banks, John Barnett and Clewes himself. If it were not, it would be omitted from the proceedings, the case against Clewes would crumble and in all likelihood he would be acquitted. Ludlow, persevering doggedly with his line of attack, appealed to Littledale to exclude the confession altogether or else compel the prosecution to call Reverend Clifton.

‘The court should be satisfied that the confession is voluntary,’ Ludlow said. If it had been obtained by any threat or persuasion then it could not be admitted. He had several concerns relating to the document.

If this confession had followed an interview with a private friend or unauthorised person, I would not have asked his Lordship to require the appearance of that person [Reverend Clifton] in the witness box. But when the party stood in the situation of a visiting magistrate – when in that capacity he had gone to the gaol and had been locked up alone with the prisoner, I would ask his Lordship whether it was not the duty of the prosecution to put Mr Clifton in the box?

There was more to Ludlow’s argument. It was imperative, he suggested, that everyone in the court understood what had passed between Clewes and Clifton in the cell. The first confession ‘must naturally have been operating on his mind, and he [Clewes] was not in the fair exercise of his judgement.’ A day may have passed since Clewes had spoken to Clifton for the first time, encouraged by the false promise of a royal pardon, but ‘the mark of torture had not yet been removed from his mind’. It was a strong performance from Ludlow. He concluded his speech by imploring the prosecution to put Clifton on the stand.

Littledale was swayed by Ludlow’s arguments but stopped short of assisting him outright. ‘I do not see how I can insist upon the prosecution calling any particular witness,’ he said. ‘I think at the same time it would be candid and fair of them to do so.’

There was a pause in the court. But with no sign that Curwood was about to act, Ludlow seized on the ambiguity of the judge’s remark. ‘In that case I will call the Reverend Mr Clifton,’ he announced.

This was an unusual step but it passed unopposed. Clifton left his seat at the front of the room and entered the witness box. From the start he seemed downcast and contrite. He admitted signing a warrant for Clewes’ arrest, and that subsequently the men had spent hours together over the next days.

‘How many times did you see the prisoner in the gaol,’ asked Ludlow, ‘before he made the statement now in discussion?’

‘Several times,’ Clifton said. ‘Three, I think, or four.’

‘Four, perhaps?’

‘Possibly four, three I have distinct recollections of.’

‘Did you communicate to Clewes that you would write to the Secretary of State?’

‘I think I did,’ Clifton replied. ‘I said to Clewes I would use all my interest with His Majesty’s Government to prevent any ill consequences falling upon him, if he would dispose to me all he knew of the Oddingley murders.’

‘Now, Mr Clifton,’ said Ludlow. ‘Was it at your desire that Clewes was left alone with you?’

‘Yes. It was at my express desire.’

‘And you are a clergyman, Mr Clifton, and you felt great desire to have the mystery developed?’

‘Yes,’ said Clifton.

Perhaps Clifton’s kindness, the empathy that stemmed from his Christian upbringing and his life as a minister, had been his undoing. The private interviews, the cautionary words and the nudging advice are all reminiscent of a pastor schooled to listen, to counsel and to steer the souls of men to God. These impulses might have been natural for Clifton, but they flew in the face of his legal responsibilities, which required him to remain objective and dispassionate. Clifton’s bungled role in Clewes’ confession exposed an integral weakness in the legal system, which encouraged members of the clergy to fill their spare hours in the dual role of a magistrate. The two positions, clergyman and magistrate, may be united by their need for educated and respected men, but in essence they required very different minds, skills and training. Clifton had muddled the two roles disastrously, and this had thrown the case – already complex enough – into further confusion.

It was vital for Curwood to distance the two confessions from one another, and he now asked Clifton to explain what had happened in his third interview with the prisoner. ‘I told Clewes that I had utterly failed in obtaining any promise or hope of mercy, and read to him a particular part of the letter to that effect,’ he explained. ‘I said he might consider the circumstances as locked up in my breast, for I considered myself in the double capacity of magistrate and clergyman, and should state nothing against him.’ He went on, ‘I would rather be committed by the coroner for contempt, than disclose what had passed.’

‘But had not George Banks been committed to gaol under your warrant between the meetings?’ Ludlow asked, recommencing his cross-examination.