Historical Mystery
Date Published: 10-23-2023
Publisher: Level Best Books’ Historia Imprint
A historical mystery based on Helms’ Derringer Award-nominated EQMM short story “The Cripplegate Apprehension”.
In 1843 London, a Scottish woodturner named Daniel M’Naghten gunned down Edward Drummond, the private secretary to Prime Minister Robert Peel, while Drummond strolled the streets of Whitehall. M’Naghten believed he shot the Prime Minister and, after being informed otherwise and making a brief statement at his arraignment, he never spoke in public about the crime again. M’Naghten was represented at trial by firebrand Queen’s Counsel Alexander Cockburn, who intended to plead insanity and rewrite four hundred years of English Common Law in the process. In this fictional retelling of the famous historical event, Cockburn recruits legendary London thief-taker Vicar Brekonridge to travel to Glasgow, M’Naghten’s home, and find witnesses who can bolster the insanity defense. What Brekonridge finds instead suggests that M’Naghten was part of a frightening conspiracy to bring down the British government.
PRAISE FOR VICAR BREKONRIDGE
“In a seamless blending of historical fact and narrative skill, Richard Helms reimagines the sensational case of Daniel M’Naghten, whose 1843 murder trial set a precedent that reverberates to this day. Helms has crafted a thoroughly gripping historical mystery that will leave readers eager to hear more of the “notorious thief-taker” Vicar Brekonridge.
—Daniel Stashower, Edgar Award Winning Author of American Demon
“VICAR BREKONRIDGE may be one of (Richard Helms’) more intriguing creations…a fascinating character to follow around, as he makes his way through the streets and back alleys of London, through its open air markets and dingy taverns or journeying out to Newgate Prison to visit a man he put there…For all his rough-and-tumble manners, cynical bravado, mercenary motives and sliding scale honesty, in a shady profession not particularly known for its integrity, he struts through the streets of London, a cloud of hemp in his wake, hewing to some inexplicable personal code that betrays a startling even-minded empathy for the criminals he hunts down, and a concern for — of all things — justice, which reminded me of Sam Spade‘s moral ambivalence. “
—Kevin Burton Smith, Thrilling Detective Website
EXCERPT
CHAPTER ONE
Had Edward Drummond worn a thicker overcoat, he might have lived.
The late January weather in 1843 had been cold and blustery for days, but he was only going as far as his brother’s banking house at Charing Cross, a half mile from his office at the Prime Minister’s office. With such a short distance, he determined to make the walk in a lighter, more comfortable jacket.
Had the bullet deviated a mere inch, Edward Drummond might have lived. Fired upon at point-blank range, the muzzle of a single-shot pistol pressed against his back, it was possible the damage might have been restricted to muscle and flesh only. As the bullet struck him, he experienced little pain. It felt as if he had been slapped across the back lightly with a cudgel. Only the thunderous report of the pistol informed him he had been shot.
His first response, as he stumbled and fell to the ground, was confusion. Was this some clumsy attempt at a robbery? Certainly not on Whitehall in the middle of a bright, crisp January afternoon. Revenge seemed an unlikely motive. He was a peaceful man who had spent his entire life in public service to the crown. He was a functionary, a simple secretary to the Prime Minister. Certainly, some horrendous error had been made.
He rolled and saw his assailant standing over him, holding a pistol, blue smoke curling from its barrel. The man slipped the pistol into his jacket pocket and took another from inside his coat. He leveled the second pistol at Drummond’s head, and pulled back the hammer. As it fell into its lock, the click sounded like the snap of lightning before the first peal of thunder.
Drummond wanted to close his eyes, but his horror wouldn’t allow it. His mind raced to find some sense in what was happening to him. He raised a hand to ward off a second shot. For a fatal instant, the two men’s eyes locked. Drummond saw fury and determination in the assailant’s face. He tried to form words, to say something—anything—to dissuade his attacker. Nothing came.
As he lost hope for salvation, a uniformed London police officer appeared behind the assassin and grabbed for the man’s arms. When the officer jerked the man around, the second pistol went off. The ball whined as it ricocheted off the granite curb, only inches from Drummond’s head, and careened away. The gunman struggled as the constable wrestled him to the ground.
A crowd gathered, drawn by the sound of the pistol and the anticipation of excitement. More uniformed officers, alerted by the gunfire, arrived to help subdue the shooter. Two men helped Drummond to his feet. His back throbbed sorely.
“You’ve been shot, sir,” one said.
“Yes,” Drummond replied. It was all he could muster. The reality of his potentially mortal circumstances still had not registered with him. “Please help me? I’ve come from my brother’s bank in Charing Cross. Can you assist me in returning there?”
“You need a surgeon!” the other man said.
“My brother will tend to it. I do not wish to remain here, on the street, in the open. There may be more—”
A sudden metallic taste filled his mouth, and his vision wavered and dimmed. His knees felt weak. He was supported by both the men, one under each shoulder.
As quickly as it had hit him, the shock subsided. Drummond waved one weak hand in the air. “It is only a short distance,” he said. “Only as far as Charing Cross. I can walk. Please. I will be fine if I can only get to my brother.”
* * * * *
If a surgeon—a real surgeon—had been immediately at his disposal, Edward Drummond might have lived.
Drummond’s Bank at 49-50 Charing Cross in Westminster was founded in 1717 by Edward Drummond’s great-grandfather, a goldsmith. It had remained in family control for over a century. In 1843, it was still administered in part by Edward’s older brother, Charles.
At a brisk pace, one could walk from the Prime Minister’s office to Drummond’s Bank in slightly over ten minutes. Edward Drummond had been halfway between those points when he was shot. A brisk pace out of the question, Drummond and his two Samaritans took almost a quarter hour to make their way to the bank.
Charles Drummond kept private quarters on the third floor of the bank in case he might have to work too late to return to his home. As soon as Edward staggered into the bank, the back of his light winter coat stained with blood, Charles had him escorted to those quarters.
“Please,” Edward whispered as they laid him onto Andrew’s bed, “Summon Anne. If I am to depart this earth today, I do not wish to do so without first laying my eyes on my dear sister’s face once more.”
“First, let’s tend to your wounds,” Charles said. “I will send for a surgeon at once.” He ordered an assistant to run out and bring a surgeon, and another to fetch Anne Eliza Drummond.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Charles asked, as he knelt next to the bed.
“I have no idea. I was walking back to Downing Street after our visit here, when a man pressed a pistol into my back and fired. I can find no provocation or possible conflict that might have instigated such an attack. Thank you…” he took a glass of red wine his brother poured for him, and sipped. “He must surely have been a madman.”
Charles ordered Edward to be quiet and rest until medical help could arrive. When it did, it came in the form not of a surgeon, but a local apothecary named Richard Jackson.
“I’m sorry,” the assistant said, “All of the surgeons along the streets were otherwise engaged.”
“You should have told them my brother is the personal secretary to Sir Robert Peel,” Charles said angrily.
“I did the best I could!” the assistant argued.
“Out,” Charles ordered. “Your presence here in my emotional state endangers your situation.”
Richard Jackson sat beside Edward’s bed and examined the wound as the assistant skulked out of the room.
“No exit,” Jackson noted immediately. “The ball is still inside him. Where, I cannot say. Please unbutton his waistcoat and shirt. I wish to listen to his heart.”
Seconds later, Jackson declared Edward Drummond’s heart to be steady and strong. “I see no immediate life-threatening concerns,” he said. “The ball must be removed. A proper surgeon might be able to determine with much greater specificity what danger our patient here might face, but I think … for the moment … he is not in mortal peril.”
“If so,” Edward said, “I wish to move to my own apartment. I can be much more comfortable there and will pose no further disruption to the operations of the bank.”
“Perhaps it would be better for you to remain here, at least until a surgeon can arrive to remove the ball,” Charles suggested.
“I feel quite strong enough to make the short trip to Grosvenor Street. It is only a little over a mile. If you would summon a carriage…”
“You will take mine,” Charles said. “And Mr. Jackson will accompany you.”
“I’d better patch you up, first,” Jackson said. “The ball might not kill you, but you’ve already lost a fair amount of blood. Won’t help you to lose any more.”
* * * * *
Within an hour, Edward Drummond arrived at his apartment at 19 Lower Grosvenor Place. Richard Jackson assisted him from the carriage and up the stairs. They found his sister, Anne Eliza, waiting for them, after Charles had sent word of Edward’s shooting to her. She was distraught, her eyes red-rimmed with tears, and she clutched a dainty linen handkerchief.
She had located two surgeons to tend to Edward’s wounds. One was George James Guthrie, a former president of the Royal College of Surgeons. The other, Bransby Cooper, was somewhat more notorious and arguably less skilled than his companion. Cooper had been the subject of a scandal years earlier when his botched surgery on a young man had resulted in the man’s most painful and agonizing death.
Edward’s sister waited outside as the surgeons examined his wounds. The pistol ball had entered to the left of his spine at a point underneath his shoulder blade. After warning Edward that it would be necessary to probe the path, entailing no small amount of pain, the two surgeons explored the path of the projectile. It had ricocheted off one of Edward’s ribs, turned downward, and lodged under the lowest left-side rib in muscle near the surface of his abdomen. As they probed, Edward tried to remain stoic, but finally cried out in great pain.
“It can’t be stated with absolute certainty,” Cooper said, after placing a pad over the wound and allowing Drummond to recline again on his bed, “but there is the potential for severe organic damage. I don’t believe the heart was impacted, but I can’t say the same for your lung and other vital organs in the area of the impact. My recommendation would be to remove the ball as quickly as possible and hope nature will correct any other injury.”
“Please do it at once,” Edward ordered.
After plying Drummond with almost half a decanter of brandy, the physicians set about the business of removing the pistol ball lodged in his lower abdomen. It took only a few minutes to create an incision and to dissect the muscle beneath the skin. Intoxicated but not insensate, Edward chewed a wadded piece of his linen sheet and grimaced in agony as they excised the lead fragment. They sewed the wound shut and bandaged it, and Edward lay back on his mattress, gasping and wiping the tears from his face.
“Your recovery may be slow,” Dr. Guthrie warned him as he cleaned the blood from his hands in a china washbowl. “You are not a young man, Mr. Drummond. The body loses its ability to heal after age fifty. Don’t overly exert yourself, allow your lovely sister to attend to your needs, and I believe you will recover in time.”
* * * * *
Later that evening Edward’s sister Anne found him resting, however uncomfortably, in his room.
“It was fortunate you were able to locate the surgeons,” he said to her.
“You can thank the Prime Minister,” she said. “When he was informed of the attack on you by the police, he summoned them immediately.”
“I am in his debt.”
“Nonsense. Sir Robert would be lost without you, my dear brother. He was only protecting his best interests. Shall I read to you?”
“Please do not bother on my behalf. To be truthful, I am completely exhausted. I do wish you would stay by my side while I go to sleep. Your presence, as always, is such a great comfort for me.”
She grasped his hand, and promised to remain until he was asleep.
* * * * *
Edward awoke early the next morning, before sunrise, coughing and in great pain. When he tried to draw breath, his chest ached terribly. Each inhalation was accompanied by raspy wheezing noise. He kept a small bell by his bedside to summon his housekeeper. When he rang it, Anne burst into the room. She had been sitting outside, dozing in her chair.
“What is it?” she asked as she knelt next to his bed.
“I am experiencing great distress,” he gasped. “I cannot breathe comfortably. We must summon the surgeons.”
“I’ll send for them at once,” she said, and dashed from the room.
Edward lay corpse-like on the bed, afraid to roll one way or the other. Each movement resulted in tormenting exquisite pain in his left side. It started under his left breast and then radiated all along his chest and abdomen. He found, if he took short shallow breaths, he could suck in enough air to forestall the sense of drowning and the panic that accompanied it.
Both surgeons arrived within a half hour. They went to work directly, examining him carefully but not entirely gently. He moaned in pain as they rolled him over to inspect the wound. Anne stood near the door, worrying the Irish out of her linen handkerchief.
Directly, Guthrie stood and addressed her.
“His condition is much more serious than we first believed,” he announced. “Due to swelling along the path of the pistol ball, we were unable to detect that it had shattered his lowest rib on the left side of his chest. It appears, sometime between the shooting and this morning, shards of the rib have irritated his lung, perhaps even penetrating it. The lung is filling with fluid.”
“What can you do?” Anne pleaded. “Please, tell me you can save him!”
“We will do everything in our power,” he reassured her. “But you should prepare yourself for the possibility he might not survive. Should he descend fully into pneumonia or pleurisy, we will not be able to do much to save him. He would be in the Lord’s hands.”
Cooper joined them near the door.
“I would suggest bleeding,” he said. “By reducing the volume of blood in his body, we might be able to reduce the fluids in his lungs. The lungs extract these fluids from the bloodstream, after all.”
“I am more concerned about inflammation,” Guthrie countered. “The fluid in his lungs may be the result of an infection along the path of the bullet. There is evidence of putrefaction near the site of the incision we made yesterday. He risks gangrene.”
“Bleeding may still be beneficial,” Cooper said. “And we could apply leeches to the area of the incision to absorb the necrotic tissue. I have seen this provide some benefit in the past.”
“Please!” Anne urged. “My brother is the only person who has stood by me since childhood. I cannot contemplate a life without Edward. You will do whatever is necessary to save him.”
Guthrie crossed the bed chamber to Edward. “You heard the conversation?” he asked.
“Every word,” Edward stared at the ceiling. “Be about it, Doctor. I fear I cannot survive much longer with this enormous pressure in my chest.”
Cooper escorted Anne from the room, explaining that the procedure, however safe it might be, could unduly frighten her, due to the large quantity of blood they would release. After she was out of the room, he returned to the bedside and assisted Guthrie.
First, they shaved the side of Drummond’s head to expose the temporal artery. They palpated the pulse from the temporal artery forward of his ear and—after warning Edward to brace himself—cut into it using a razor lancet, being careful not to sever it entirely. Cooper made the incision, creating a fine spray of blood that burst forth under pressure. Guthrie immediately pressed a muslin pad against it to keep from painting the bed chamber walls as they positioned Edward correctly to allow for the free release of his blood.
They allowed the wound to bleed into a chamber pot until they had extracted a little over two pints, then packed the wound with fresh gauze and applied a bandage, winding it several times around Edward’s head, whereupon they tied the bandage tight to stanch the bleeding.
Within hours, Edward awakened, sat up in bed, and requested soup and bread. The surgeons, satisfied that the crisis had passed, left him in Anne’s care.
She read to him in the evening. He appeared to be in high spirits, almost giddy at times. At one point, she put down the book and dropped to her knees at his bedside. She grasped his hand in both of hers and kissed it.
“I was so worried,” she said. “I cannot bear the idea of being separated from you, brother. I have nobody else in this world.”
He stroked her hair affectionately. “Your companionship over the years has been of such great comfort to me. I have no fear of departing this life, except that it would cause me to leave you with nobody to provide you support or protection. As I have lain here in pain, I have been taking accounts of my life to this point, and I cannot say I am disappointed. True, I might have risen to greater heights had I been a more ambitious man, and yet such achievements seem to me unimportant when I see the sorrow in your eyes. Perhaps, when I am properly on the mend, we might consider a vacation on the continent.”
“Your work—”
“I will need a period of recuperation. How much better to regain my strength and vigor in a villa in the south of Italy than here in foggy London? And you will be my companion.”
She lay her head on his mattress and smiled at him. “In all things, my precious brother. We must never be separated, not even by death.”
“Most assuredly by death,” he said. “But not today. And not soon. We will have many years in each other’s company yet.”
* * * * *
On Sunday following the shooting, Drummond gained even more strength through the course of the morning. He was still confined to his bed, so Anne asked for a bowl of water and some towels, and she cleaned him as best as she was able. She opened the curtains to his bedchamber, which had been closed since the shooting on Friday, except when the doctors were tending him, and Edward was delighted to find the sun was bright and intense as it streamed in through the windows.
“An excellent omen!” he cried.
She read to him for a bit, until he interrupted her.
“I am hungry. Truly hungry. Might you have cook prepare a proper luncheon?”
Anne had the staff prepare roasted pork with sweet apple sauce and root vegetables since it was January and fresh vegetables were almost impossible to obtain, even for someone with Drummond’s highly placed connections. She helped him eat. When he was finished, she left him to rest as she retired for her own temporary room down the hall for a nap.
In late afternoon Drummond awoke, acutely aware that something had changed. It felt as if something inside of him had separated, broken loose and was roaming about his innards like a drunken snake. He immediately reached for the bell but, as quickly as the sensation had struck him, it vanished again, to be replaced with the same dull but tolerable agony he had endured for two days.
Ten minutes later the physical apparition returned, a strange feeling of tension in his abdomen that uncoiled into a flurry of spasms and sharp, penetrating twinges, as if some force were ripping his body apart from its core.
This time, he did ring for help. In seconds, Anne was at his side, her face reflecting his concern.
“Something is wrong,” he said. “It feels…different.”
“Shall I call the surgeons?” Anne asked.
“Let us hold off for a few hours,” he said. “It is possible this is part of the healing process. I am at a loss to say. After all, I have never been shot before. But, please, stay by my side. I find in your closeness a great balm.”
“You are so kind and gracious,” she said. “You make me wish to always be here with you.”
* * * * *
Nine o’clock the next morning found the surgeons Guthrie and Cooper arrive at 19 Lower Grosvenor Place by carriage, having been summoned by Anne not long after first light.
They found Edward Drummond on his bed, his face ghastly pale. His thin fingers fumbled with the bedclothes. His breath smelled foul and diseased, and his lungs gurgled as he tried to draw in air. He had a fever again. His eyes blinked open and closed, and he hadn’t uttered a word since awakening. One could not discern whether he was aware of the presence of others.
“He must be bled again,” Cooper stated with authority.
“He lost a quart on Saturday,” Guthrie cautioned. “And God knows how much when he was shot on Friday. We must take care not to exsanguinate him.”
“The risk of inaction is much greater!” Cooper said. “We must be at it at once, or he may not see the end of the day.”
“Help me turn him on his side,” Guthrie said. He and Cooper delicately rolled Drummond, and they examined the two wounds on his back. A faint smell like rotting meat rose to their nostrils.
“The infection is spreading,” Cooper said. “We risk gangrene if we do not act immediately.”
Reluctantly, Guthrie agreed. They positioned the nearly-comatose Drummond over the basin on the floor, and reopened the incision into his temporal artery. This time the blood did not spray, but rather bubbled and pooled on the surface of his skull before dropping into the basin. Both surgeons watched as it covered the bottom of the basin and crept up the sides.
“I expect two quarts may be sufficient,” Cooper said.
“Certainly not so much!” Guthrie argued.
“It’s been two days, and his sister has assured us he has eaten and drunk well. He has replaced almost all the blood we removed on Saturday. The risk of acting is minimal. The risk of delay, great.”
“It’s on your head,” Guthrie said.
“I am perfectly willing to leave him in your hands if you wish. On the other hand, I think the Prime Minister would be much distressed were I to leave this man’s bedside and some grave tragedy befall him. I fear we are both in this to the bitter end, sir. Please be sure to keep his head still.”
When they were finished, they bound his head again and left him to rest. He did not awaken again until the next morning, Tuesday. He was listless and groggy, but he was able to answer simple questions from Anne.
“The man,” he whispered to her as she sat at his side.
“Which man?”
“The one who—” He pantomimed firing a pistol.
She cupped his face in her hands and gazed into his eyes. “He is being held in the jail at Gardener’s Lane. The newspapers are vague on the subject, but I am led to understand he believed he was shooting at Sir Robert Peel.”
“Ah,” Drummond rasped, settling back into his pillow. “Yes. It makes sense. There would be little profit in erasing me from the Earth, but shooting the Prime Minister makes the picture much clearer. After the attacks on Her Majesty, assassination appears to have become something of a fashion.”
Drummond remained stable for most of the afternoon. He was wan and weak. His energy did not resurge as it had following his arteriotomy on Saturday. By Tuesday morning he was scarcely able to prop himself up in bed without considerable assistance from Anne and a servant girl.
Late on Tuesday afternoon, Anne dozed in a soft wing chair which had been brought into Drummond’s bedchamber for that purpose. She was roused by mumbling in the bed next to her.
“Foul…waste…hindrance…so frail…”
She leaned close over him, determined to figure out what he was saying.
“My darling brother,” she said, as she wiped his brow with a damp cloth. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
He shook his head, his eyes clenched shut, and swiped at the cloth with his hand. He remained in a stated of delirium until almost dusk, at which time—desperate for some sign of hope—Anne once again sent for the surgeons. Only George James Guthrie responded.
“Where is Doctor Cooper?” Anne demanded.
“I cannot say,” Guthrie muttered as he examined Drummond.
“Edward is declining.”
Guthrie thumbed open Drummond’s left eye and held a candle up to it. Then he tapped on the stricken man’s chest repeatedly. Finally, he checked Edward’s racing pulse.
“I am not encouraged,” was all he would say. “I will remain here until the crisis passes, one way or the other.”
They sat with Drummond through the night. By first light the next morning, his agitation had resolved, and he slept briefly. When he awoke, he stared at the ceiling almost as if he could not determine its nature.
On Wednesday morning, Guthrie examined him once again. He shook his head and took a seat next to the bed. He stroked Edward’s forehead until the man’s eyes opened.
“It is with the utmost regret that I tell you this, Mr. Drummond,” Guthrie said. “I fear your hour is at hand. I do not believe you will live until midday.”
Across the room, Anne gasped and wept softly into her handkerchief—the latest of dozens she had soaked since Friday.
“I understand,” Drummond replied. “The sooner the better. I am not presently in pain. If there is no hope, I would as soon pass as remain in this state. I thank you, Doctor. You have given me three more days with my beloved sister. Would you leave us alone for a few moments?”
“Certainly.” Guthrie stepped toward the doorway, momentarily placed his hand on Anne’s shoulder, and then walked downstairs to the parlor.
Drummond gestured for his sister to come to his side. She ignored the chair and slipped up onto the mattress, placing one hand under Drummond’s head. With the other she brushed matted hair away from his brow.
“How curious that neither of us were fortunate to marry. Perhaps there was some purpose in that. We have lived long and happy together, and you are my closest friend,” he whispered. “My only regret is parting with you.”
Anne pleaded, “You will get stronger. We will take that holiday to Italy. The doctor is most certainly mistaken.”
He mustered a faint, exerted smile. “You are sweet and kind, but I am afraid the awful French word malaise expresses most fully my burden. I am thirsty. Might you bring me a glass of brandy? It will help me rest.”
“I am afraid to leave your side,” she said.
“I assure you. I will not depart this world in the time it takes to fetch a glass.”
She returned only a minute or so later. His breath had become labored. She placed the brandy to his lips, and he sipped.
“Delightful,” he whispered, and his body was wracked with a sudden fit of coughing. His back arched, and one hand flew out, dashing the snifter onto the carpet and spilling the brandy across the floor. He moaned as he fought for breath, and she tossed her arms around him and cradled his head to her bosom. His respiration slowed, more a liquid rattle than breathing, and then it stopped altogether.
Anne wailed in despair as her brother’s body went limp in death.
Half an hour later, she emerged from his room and made her way to the parlor downstairs, where Guthrie waited for her.
“It is finished,” she said. Ignoring manners and custom, she poured a drink from a decanter next to the fireplace and downed it all in a single gulp. She started to pour another, but Guthrie’s hand stayed her.
“Courage,” he said.
“To hell with courage,” she said, her eyes flashing. “All I hold dear has been ripped from me. I shall not accept and I shall not forgive. The man who has done this will pay.”
She pushed the doctor’s hand away and reached again for the decanter.
“He will pay dearly,” she said
CHAPTER TWO
By the time the two bobbies pulled the shooter up the steps to the Gardener’s Lane Station House, word had spread of the attack on Whitehall. The station was becoming crowded with interested officers and some citizens, including one or two reporters who had happened to be in the station when the announcement was made.
The gunman had initially resisted the policemen, crying out as they clapped the cuffs on his wrists, “Do not detain me. I know what I am about!”
However, on the short march toward the station house, the young handcuffed man appeared to be strangely happy. He even chuckled several times. Constable Silver glanced at Constable Stevens as if to ask whether the man might be insane.
“It is done,” the man said softly. “I am at peace. He shall not destroy my peace of mind any longer.”
Stevens began the process of booking the man, but was interrupted by an inspector named Tierney, who conducted the interview himself. He ordered Silver and Stevens to stand guard outside the room.
“Look at me,” Tierney told the man. “I wish you to understand your circumstances. You are to be charged with an attempted murder. Do you understand this?”
To Tierney’s surprise, the prisoner looked up at him, and appeared to be at peace. He didn’t say anything. He was of medium height, with straw-colored hair and scant whiskers. His eyes were a penetrating blue. He was dressed in a black overcoat, with a cloth waistcoat and tweed trousers underneath. He seemed calm and collected, especially for a man who had attempted murder only minutes earlier. What struck Tierney most of all was the man’s youth. He appeared to be no older than twenty-five.
“Your name?”
“Daniel M’Naghten,” the man said. Tierney noted the man’s accent sounded Scottish.
“You’re from Scotland?” he asked.
Nothing. The man stared ahead, calm, unchallenging, but also uncooperative.
“What is your address in London, if you have one?”
Nothing again. This man M’Naghten appeared to wish to control the interview, something Inspector Tierney could not abide.
“The penalty will be quite severe,” he said, in a clumsy attempt to frighten the man into complying. It didn’t succeed. M’Naghten continued to gaze into Tierney’s eyes, seldom blinking, and showing no fear at all.
“I suppose you are aware of the identity of the man you shot?” Tierney asked.
“It is Sir Robert Peel, is it not?” M’Naghten said with a sly smile. “Have I not shot the Prime Minister?”
“I am happy to say you have not,” Tierney informed him. “The man you assaulted was Sir Robert’s secretary, Edward Drummond, and you had better hope no greater harm comes to him. The penalty for attempted murder is severe enough. Should Mr. Drummond succumb to his injuries—” He held his hand up, with the index finger pointed down, and waggled it back and forth to suggest a swinging body.
M’Naghten’s face clouded over. “I do not wish to say any more,” he said.
* * * * *
After several more attempts to engage M’Naghten in the interview, Tierney left him chained to a table and joined Constables Silver and Stevens outside the room. Stevens still held the two pistols he’d taken from M’Naghten.
“What do you make of these?” he said, handing them to Tierney, who examined them closely.
“Excellent craftsmanship,” Tierney said. “The engraving and tooling of the metal, the fine walnut grips, the balance and weight precise. They appear to be almost new. These are a gentleman’s pistols. Please assist me in inventorying his possessions. Perhaps we can find some more information about him among the effects he’s carrying.”
All three officers reentered the interrogation room, where M’Naghten sat serenely, staring at the wall. Tierney ordered him to stand, and Silver and Stevens rifled through his pockets. Tierney wrote each item they found.
“Two five pound notes…four sovereigns…eleven shillings…four silver pence…one copper penny…a pen knife…a key…”
“Hey, now, what’s this?” Silver said, as he extracted a slip of paper from M’Naghten’s waistcoat pocket. He handed it to Inspector Tierney.
Tierney said, “A deposit receipt from the Glasgow and Ship Bank, made out to Daniel M’Naghten of 7 Poplar Row, Newington. Is that your current address, Mr. M’Naghten?”
M’Naghten stared straight ahead. Tierney picked up the key.
“If I send an officer to 7 Poplar Row in Newington with this key, will he be able to access your lodging there?”
His question was met with further silence. Tierney handed the key to Silver, with instructions to have a Sergeant Shaw visit M’Naghten’s presumed lodgings.
“I suspect, once we have the opportunity to toss your rooms, we will know a great deal more about you, sir,” Tierney said to M’Naghten. “This deposit slip intrigues me. Seven hundred fifty quid is an impressive amount of money, enough to sustain you for several years, if one is frugal. You mentioned your intended target was Sir Robert Peel. Were you paid to assassinate him? Is this blood money?”
M’Naghten sat like a statue. If he heard Inspector Tierney, he did not indicate it.
“At the least,” Tierney said, “Possessing such a large amount of money, you should have no problems locating extremely able legal assistance. Believe me, you will need it.”
* * * * *
Newington was a short walk from the Gardener’s Lane Station House, across the Thames, and Sergeant George Walter Shaw was able to make the trip in a little over a half hour. He crossed Westminster Bridge and followed the Bridge Road into the center of Newington.
Until the middle of the eighteenth century, most of Newington had been farmland. Because of this, the houses Shaw found on his walk were largely newer, with many modern conveniences. Even so, Newington itself, separated from the bustle of government on the other side of the Thames, had a sleepy, almost tranquil quality. Shaw could see the advantage of living there.
Poplar Row was a short offshoot road from Rockingham, lined with row houses. While the area was not affluent, the houses appeared well-tended. Some children played in the street as Shaw rounded the corner, but scattered when they saw him.
He quickly found number 7 and banged on the door. It was answered within seconds by a middle-aged woman with a napkin tied around her neck. Apparently, Shaw had interrupted the landlady’s dinner. She stared at Sergeant Shaw as if the policeman had dropped from a cloud.
“Do you have a tenant named Daniel M’Naghten?” he asked.
“Has he done something?”
“There was a shooting near the Horse Guards on Whitehall this afternoon. M’Naghten is a suspect.” He held up the key retrieved from M’Naghten’s trousers. “This is to his rooms?”
The landlady peered at it, then took out a pair of pince-nez glasses and looked again. “It appears to be the key I gave him,” she said.
“Please lead me there. I must search his belongings.”
She led him up a flight of stairs to the second floor, where Shaw used the key to open M’Naghten’s flat. The first word that came to him as he surveyed the meager rooms was austere.
“Your name?” Shaw asked.
“Sarah Dutton.”
“How much does M’Naghten pay for these rooms?” he asked.
“Two shillings six a week,” she said.
“Seems a bit much for lodgings of this size. Did he bring his own furniture?” Shaw said, noting a single bed, a wardrobe, two chairs and a table in the main room.
“No. The rooms come furnished.”
Shaw crossed to the wardrobe, and opened it. He found several shirts, two pairs of wool trousers, a second pair of shoes, and little else.
“You can identify these as belonging to M’Naghten?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve seen him wear these trousers many times.”
“How long has he lived here?”
“Mr. M’Naghten has lived here twice. He left for a few months, and then returned asking if his rooms were available.”
“When was that?”
“Let me think. He arrived here in late October, I believe. He had been gone since April or May. He showed up again, noting I had put a sign in his window to let out the room. He asked whether his old room was available.”
“How was he as a lodger?”
“He was quiet.”
“And these clothes were all he brought with him when he returned in October?”
“No. You should have seen him when he returned. His clothes were tattered and darned. He looked like some itinerant day laborer. He disposed of those rags almost immediately, and within days was more properly attired, as was his custom.”
“He’s a bit of a dandy?” Shaw asked.
“Not at all. He is particular about his clothes, which is why I was so surprised to see him so disheveled.”
“Do you know where he went for the months he was absent?”
“No. He is from Scotland, of course. You can tell from his speech. Perhaps he was simply visiting there. I make it my habit not to inquire too deeply into my lodgers’ lives. They have a right to privacy, don’t they?”
As she spoke, Shaw checked the pockets of the clothing in the wardrobe. In the trousers, he felt two small objects. He pulled them out and discovered percussion caps, the kind used in single shot pistols to fire off the gunpowder in the breech. These Shaw placed in his own jacket pocket to take back to the Gardener’s Lane Station.
“Could you expound on Mr. M’Naghten’s habits?” he asked. “You said he was quiet. How do you mean?”
“He is an ideal tenant. I have never seen him drunken or even tipsy. He makes a point of delivering his rent directly to me, and he is never late.”
“Did he do some sort of work in London?”
“I don’t think so. He slept quite late, often until seven-thirty or eight in the morning. He’d rise, take a light breakfast, clean his shoes…he was almost manic about clean shoes…and left the house. Most evenings, I would not see him again until late. He never mentioned any employment. It was my impression he was retired, or perhaps of independent means. An inheritance, perhaps.”
“Did he ever mention the Prime Minister? Or perhaps Mr. Edward Drummond?”
“Not as I can recall. You must remember, he seldom returned to his rooms before ten o’clock at night. What he did in the time between leaving this house and returning I have no idea. In fact, I don’t recall having any lengthy conversations with the man.”
* * * * *
The next morning, at the same time Edward Drummond was bled by his surgeons, Daniel M’Naghten was transported to Bow Street Police Magistrates’ Court for arraignment.
The legal system in London in 1843 was a curious mix of civil and criminal courts. For most miscreants, the first stop after arrest was a Police Magistrate’s Court, where charges were read and decisions regarding binding over for holding until trial or the setting of bonds for release were made. Actual trials took place at the Old Bailey, but arraignments, bond hearings, and civil cases tended to be forwarded to Bow Street for disposition.
The Bow Street complex was impressive. Situated northwest of Covent Garden, the building was a huge four-story brick and stone edifice housing several different administrative courts.
Inspector Tierney was present, along with Metropolitan Police Officers Silver, Stevens, and Shaw. The uniformed officers had prepared for the hearing, knowing there would be a great deal of public interest in the proceedings. The copper buttons on their jackets gleamed, as did the badges affixed to their helmets. Stevens had even polished the iron handcuffs he had used to restrain M’Naghten the day before.
Around ten-thirty, the chambers doors opened, and Chief Magistrate Thomas James Hall made his appearance. As was custom in all of the London courts, Hall wore the traditional long powdered wig and dark robes associated with the bench. He took a moment to situate himself at his elevated seat, and called for M’Naghten to be brought in.
All heads turned as the doors to the holding cells opened and M’Naghten appeared in public for the first time since the shooting. He glanced around the court chambers and took the place at the bar where he was directed by a bailiff. Tierney noted he did not appear overtly disturbed or frightened by his circumstances. In fact, M’Naghten’s appearance might most accurately have been described as serene and, as a newspaper reported the next day: “…as if careless about the awful charge about to be brought against him.”
The Chief Clerk of Administrative Court, a man named Burnaby, asked the accused man to state his name.
In a soft voice, difficult to be heard in the back of the chamber, he said the first words he had spoken since the previous afternoon. “My name is Daniel M’Naghten.”
“Mr. M’Naghten, I am about to remand you to custody. This is an administrative hearing, and therefore it is not necessary for you, at the present occasion, to make any observations or contributions unless you see fit. I should remind you that any statements you make, under every circumstance, will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you at a future period. Perhaps you had better reserve what you have to say until the next examination.”
The court attendees leaned forward, perhaps expecting some dramatic confession from M’Naghten. Instead, the man stood still in the bar and did not respond.
Burnaby addressed him directly. “Prisoner, do you wish to state anything to the magistrate?”
For an instant, M’Naghten looked confused. Then he slowly shook his head. “I am much obliged to you, sir, but I shall say nothing at present.”
“Very well, then,” Hall said. “Please return Mr. M’Naghten to the cells.”
The bailiff took M’Naghten and led him toward the door to the holding area.
As they reached the waiting room beyond the doors, M’Naghten hesitated. The bailiff tried to pull him along, but the prisoner resisted.
“I was mistaken,” he said. “There is a statement I wish to make. Could you take me back into the court chamber?”
“As you wish,” the bailiff said, almost mocking. He was not accustomed to having his charges make special requests from him.
He led M’Naghten back into the courtroom and placed him in the dock.
“I am informed you wish to make some observations?” Hall said to M’Naghten.
From the dock, M’Naghten glanced around the courtroom, and then spoke in a clear, even voice, as if he had rehearsed this speech a thousand times.
“The Tories in my native city have compelled me to do this,” he said. “They follow me, persecute me wherever I go, and have entirely destroyed my peace of mind. They followed me to France, into Scotland, and all over England. I cannot sleep nor get no rest from them in consequence of the course they pursue towards me. I believe they have driven me into a consumption. I am sure I shall never be the man I was. I used to have good health and strength, but not now. They have accused me of crimes of which I am not guilty. They do everything in their power to harass and persecute me. In fact, they wish to murder me. It can be proved by evidence. That’s all I have to say.”
A hushed silence fell across the room. The prisoner had accused the Tories—the party represented by Sir Robert Peel—of driving him to kill their leader through persecution and harassment. He was making a political appeal, which at the same time took on a tone of irrationality.
Chief Magistrate Hall cleared his throat to speak, but M’Naghten interrupted him. This time, his voice was even quieter, and perhaps a bit more despondent.
“I am quite a different man,” he stated, “to what I was, to what I used to be before the annoyance which, for a time, has been practiced towards me.”
From the clerk’s desk, Burnaby asked, “Do you wish to say anything more?”
M’Naghten dropped his head, and stared at the floor. “Not at present,” he said.
Moments later he was led away, back to the holding cells.
He would never speak publicly about his crime again.
CHAPTER THREE
When Daniel M’Naghten shot Edward Drummond, Thomas James Hall was in his seventh year as a Magistrate of the Police Courts—his fourth year as the Chief Magistrate of the Bow Street Court. It was at Bow Street where he had gained his greatest recognition, and his greatest access to the halls of power in Great Britain.
The exchange with Daniel M’Naghten troubled him greatly. The early years of the 1840s had been a period of social and political upheaval in England and Scotland—and to a lesser extent in Ireland—due to conflicts between two rival philosophies.
A coalition of conservative factions, the Tories had undergone several iterations since the seventeenth century, but had found its feet again in 1834 when Sir Robert Peel published the Tamworth Manifesto outlining the fundamental beliefs of the party, which included granting seats in the House of Commons to large cities that had arisen in the course of the Industrial Revolution, and removing seats from districts with tiny electorates. These were seen as holdovers from feudal England, and were often referred to as “rotten boroughs.” This solution increased the representation of conservatives in the House of Commons, which had flagged after several decades of Whig rule. The primary thrust of the Tamworth Manifesto was the necessity for the Tories to reform in order to survive, and in doing so Peel moved the conservatives inches toward the middle of the political spectrum.
The other side of the political conflict was represented by a much newer and occasionally radical faction, a group calling themselves Chartists. The name came from another manifesto, the People’s Charter, written in 1838 by a member of Parliament named William Lovett.
Whereas the Tamworth Manifesto had the intent of marginally liberalizing conservative Tory policies, it still retained primary political power with the privileged classes. The Chartist movement was a populist uprising, intended to vest power in the hands of the working men of Great Britain.
The People’s Charter had outlined six major reforms to correct inequality in the governing of the empire. Universal suffrage would give the vote to every man in Great Britain, not only those owning property or those who paid a certain rent. They also sought a secret ballot, after the reforms instituted a half century earlier in the United States. They wanted land ownership requirements for serving in the House of Commons abolished, opening it up to representation by all men. Finally, they demanded service in the House of Commons to be paid, enabling even men of simple means to participate in government. Not surprisingly, they expected adoption of these changes to swell the ranks of liberals in Parliament.
The Tories recognized this as well.
The response on the part of the political establishment in London had been dramatic and swift. They had rejected the Chartists’ demands outright.
In short, the conflict between the Tories and the Chartists had devolved in only five years to a war between rich and poor. The rich, who had enjoyed centuries of power, had undertaken to squash what they saw as the Chartists rebellion against tradition, a process which they went about with great enthusiasm.
Some of the skirmishes were physical and violent, such as the Newport Uprising of 1838, in which a band of Chartists led by firebrand John Frost had attempted to take over the town of Newport in Wales. They did not expect the Westgate Hotel—the target of their insurrection—to be the host of a brigade of British soldiers, and neither did they expect their attempt to become a bloody battle. In the end, Frost and most of his co-conspirators had been shipped off to Australia, in hopes their transportation there would end the Chartist bother permanently.
Such was not to be the case.
In the year before Daniel M’Naghten shot Edward Drummond in the shadow of the Horse Guards on Whitehall, Chartists had staged several disruptions throughout Britain, but particularly in Scotland.
In May, a petition containing three million signatures of working men across England, Wales, and Scotland was presented to Parliament, requesting a vote on the reforms contained in the People’s Charter.
Parliament refused to debate the matter.
Believing their political approach would never bear fruit, the Chartists turned to more extreme—some said more radical—means to make their cases.
The working men who made up the Charter Movement recognized in 1842 that the wheels of industry and agriculture in Great Britain was lubricated in their own sweat and blood, and concluded they could most impact their cause by drying up the system. This led to a series of strikes, compounded by an economic depression gripping the country.
The strikes were widespread, from the Midlands and Yorkshire districts in England all the way to the Strathclyde region of Scotland. Most of the strikes were undertaken with the demand for the People’s Charter to be enacted before workers would return to their jobs.
Some expressions of resistance by working men during 1842 were more extreme, such as the widespread practice of removing the vent plugs from steam boilers powering the machines that symbolized the Tory devotion to industry over manpower. Collectively, these acts of sabotage were referred to as the Plug Plot.
A third player in the political unrest was a group referring to itself as the Anti-Corn Law League, which intended to abolish a set of measures implemented by the Tories to protect the interests of landowners over working men. The thrust of the Corn Laws—which applied to all cereals—was to levy taxes on wheat from outside Great Britain. This had the effect of inflating the price of bread at exactly the time factory owners—enamored of their new steam-powered looms and knitting machines—tried to cut workers’ wages.
The pushback against the monarchy and Tory-led governance turned dangerously violent, with three different attempts to assassinate Queen Victoria in 1842 alone. In May, a man named John Francis tried to shoot the Queen while she was riding with Prince Albert near Buckingham Palace on two different occasions, missing both times. He was arrested after his second attempt and eventually sentenced to death, but the Queen commuted his sentence in favor of transporting him to Australia, from whence he never returned to England.
A more bizarre attempt took place in June, when a hunchbacked dwarf named John William Bean got within a few feet of the Queen and pulled the trigger on his pistol, which providentially misfired—not surprising since it was later discovered the gun was filled with paper and tobacco. He attempted to escape, and for a brief period no hunchbacked dwarf in London was safe from police harassment. The holding cells in every borough were packed with small deformed men, held on suspicion of having made an attempt on the Queen’s life. When Bean was eventually apprehended, he was given a lengthy prison sentence, though there was evidence to suggest his intent was to die at the gibbet and put an end to his suffering.
In short, Great Britain in 1843 was ripe for physical and economic conflict, if not outright rebellion. The foundation of the monarchy hung in the balance
All of which troubled Chief Magistrate Thomas James Hall greatly as he made his way from Bow Street to Downing Street to meet with the Prime Minister, the morning after Daniel M’Naghten’s arraignment hearing. He had slept fitfully the night before, his mind roiling with the implications M’Naghten’s declaration might carry. His insomnia might also have been impacted by the missive he received upon returning to his home, suggesting it would be to his advantage to pay his respects at 10 Downing Street the next morning.
While the message was couched in the politest terms, its subtext was unmistakable. Magistrate Hall was being summoned to an audience with arguably the most powerful man in the world at the time, British Prime Minister Sir Robert Peel.
Hall presented himself at the reception area on the ground floor of 10 Downing promptly at nine o’clock. The letter he had received had not indicated a specific time, but Hall—an Anglican deacon—had to attend church later in the morning, so he felt it better to address the invitation as early as possible.
Despite the fact it was a Sunday morning, Hall was not surprised to hear Peel had arrived an hour earlier, and was waiting for Hall’s arrival. The indefatigable work habits of the Prime Minister were well-established. Within minutes, Hall was whisked into the Prime Minister’s office.
Robert Peel was an imposing figure. Standing slightly taller than average, he was regarded as a handsome and magnetic gentleman, well-read, and a moving and convincing speaker. Hall found the great man standing at his desk, leafing through several newspapers. Peel wore fashionable clothes, since a man in his position in life and society would be expected to be seen in the latest styles. His jacket had been removed and hung carefully on a hook in one corner of the office, but Peel had kept his tight waistcoat on, for no English gentleman would be caught in public in only a shirt and pants. He wore tight trousers, slung low on his hips and cinched with a leather belt, a fashion which had been made popular by the Royal Consort, Prince Albert. His collar encircled his neck all the way to the base of his jaw, with a loosely gathered linen tie knotted around it and tucked under the waistcoat. His boots were polished to a rare sheen.
His nose was slightly beak-like, situated over a cupid’s bow mouth and strong chin. His eyes were penetrating, and seemed to move about the room constantly in search of any small detail he might have missed. His hair, only slightly tinged with gray, was parted from left to right, and fell long on the right side with a decided wave, as was also the fashion of the day, and was combed forward over his temples at the sides. In whole, he presented an impressive if not intimidating figure.
“Hall, I take it,” he said, as he strode across the office to meet his visitor. Chief Magistrate Hall handed the Prime Minister his calling card, which Peel immediately placed on his desk. “Have you read the papers this morning?”
“I have not had the opportunity,” Hall said.
Peel retreated behind his desk and picked up several pages of newsprint.
“From The Examiner,” he said: “ ‘M’Naghten’s manner and countenance clearly indicates that he was in a state of insanity. But his extremely healthful appearance of body did not at all bear out his statement regarding his health.’ Would you quite agree?”
“I am not qualified to comment on the man’s mental state,” Hall said. “As to his general appearance, I can confirm he appeared to be well-formed and in excellent health.”
“And his comments regarding the Tories. What do you make of them?”
“Again, it is outside my expertise, but the statement does imply a delusion of some sort.”
“Does it?” Peel asked. “I wonder.”
“How do you mean?”
“What do we know about the man? What information about his background have we uncovered?”
“Not much, I’m sorry to say. The attack was only two days ago. The police are still gathering facts about him. A sergeant named Stephens is gathering information in Glasgow as we speak.”
Peel sat, and gestured for Hall to take a seat across from him.
“I regret to report the outlook for Mr. Drummond’s recovery has deteriorated,” Peel said. “They had to bleed him yesterday. In his already weakened state, I cannot imagine how a substantial loss of blood might positively affect his medical outcome.”
“I am sorry to hear of his decline.”
“He may yet rally. Time will tell. I am concerned with the statements made by his attacker in your court yesterday. Mr. M’Naghten was most explicit regarding the role of the Tories in this unfortunate affair.”
“Part of his delusion, surely.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. The timing could not be less opportune.”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“Three years ago, there were two attempts on Her Majesty. Last year there were three more. Now, my secretary has been wounded, perhaps mortally, by a man who presumed him to be me. I cannot escape the conclusion that some radical elements are willing to go to unacceptable extremes to attain their goals.”
“You speak of the Chartists, I suppose.”
“You are correct,” Peel said. “The frequency of attacks on the Queen have opened the door to legitimizing violence as a tolerable means to an end. Personal or political, the underlying motivations of assassins seem to justify their acts, at least in their minds. Five potential royal murders in three years, and now an attempt on my own life misdirected toward my secretary, leaves little doubt we have entered a violent age.”
Hall considered what the Prime Minister had said, and replied, “You could be right. However, I may see a way of reversing the course.”
“How so?”
“The majority of your political opponents supporting the Charter are most assuredly men of honor, but you cannot discount the possibility that among their ranks are individuals who are driven by more animal natures. Violence can beget violence, if violent people see it as a common and acceptable solution to their woes.”
“Yes. Go on.”
“We can start by not making this man M’Naghten a martyr to a political cause. Should Drummond succumb…well, the more we can attribute M’Naghten’s murderous act to some defect of reason or disease of the mind, the less our political enemies can use his behavior to fuel their outrage.”
“I cannot say I completely follow your reasoning. Please forgive me, but my degrees were in classics and mathematics, not in the law. I may oversee the making of laws in the Empire, but I cannot say I always understand their execution.”
Hall said, “Suppose we find a penalty for Mr. M’Naghten which keeps him out of sight, and out of mind. For all intents and purposes, he would be removed from society and forgotten. He would not be a martyr for any cause, and his existence would be forgotten. It seems to me this would be the resolution to the M’Naghten case you would find most satisfactory.”
Peel ran his hand across the top of his desk, and it came to rest on the stack of newspapers.
“For the sake of clarification,” he said, “it sounds as if you are suggesting, in the interests of maintaining public order and a peaceful resolution to the current political conflict, the court should find M’Naghten insane.”
“It is a means to an end.”
“And if he is not insane, sir?”
Hall brushed a stray strand of lint from his jacket sleeve. “Does it matter, Sir Robert? Does it really matter?”
About the Author
A lifelong North Carolinian, Richard Helms retired from active practice as
a forensic psychologist in 2005, after working in the field for over two
decades. At one time, he was the only court psychologist covering four
counties in NC. A court-recognized expert in sex crimes and the psychology
of sex offenders, mystery writing was an easy transition and a logical next
step after Helms left his professional career to become a college professor
in Charlotte. He retired from teaching in the summer of 2016 to become a
full time writer. Helms has twenty-two novels in print.
Besides writing, Helms loves gourmet cooking, woodworking, traveling,
simracing, amateur astronomy, playing with his grandsons, and rooting for
the Carolina Tarheels and Carolina Panthers. For a peek at his non-writing
life, check out his other website at www.rickhelms.com
The parents of two grown children, Richard Helms and his wife Elaine live
in Charlotte, NC.
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