Chapter 2

Judge Cambo, of Malta--The D'Anglades--The Murder of Lady
Mazel--Execution of William Shaw for the Murder of his
Daughter--The Sailmaker of Deal and the alleged Murder of a
Boatswain--Brunell the Innkeeper--Du Moulin, the Victim of a Gang
of Coiners--The Famous Calas Case at Toulouse--Gross Perversion of
Justice at Nuremberg--The Blue Dragoon.

The criminal annals of all countries record cases of innocent persons
condemned by judicial process on grounds that seemed sufficient at the
time, but that ultimately proved mistaken. Where circumstantial evidence
is alone forthcoming, terrible errors have been committed, and when,
later, new facts are brought to light, the mischief has been done. There
is a family likeness in these causes of judicial mistake: strong
personal resemblance between the real criminal and another; strangely
suspicious facts confirming a first strong conjecture, such as the
suspected person having been near the scene of the crime, having let
drop incautious words, being found with articles the possession of which
has been misinterpreted or has given a wrong impression. Often a sudden
accusation has produced confusion, and consequently a strong presumption
of guilt. Or the accused, although perfectly innocent, has been weak
enough to invent a false defence, as in the case quoted by Sir Edward
Coke of a man charged with killing his niece. The accused put forward
another niece in place of the victim to show that the alleged murder had
never taken place. The trick was discovered, his guilt was assumed, and
he paid the penalty with his life. On the other hand, the deliberate
cunning of the real criminal has succeeded but too often in shifting the
blame with every appearance of probability upon other shoulders.

JUDGE CAMBO OF MALTA.

A curious old story of judicial murder, caused by the infatuation of a
judge, is to be found in the annals of Malta, when under the Knights,
early in the eighteenth century. This judge, Cambo by name, rising early
one morning, heard an affray in the street, just under his window.
Looking out, he saw one man stab another. The wounded man, who had been
flying for his life, reeled and fell. At this moment the assassin's cap
came off, and his face was for a moment fully exposed to the judge
above. Then, quickly picking up the cap, he ran on, throwing away the
sheath of his knife, and, turning into another street, disappeared.

While still doubtful how he should act, the judge now saw a baker,
carrying his loaves for distribution, approach the scene of the murder.
Before he reached the place where the corpse lay, he saw the sheath of
the stiletto, picked it up, and put it into his pocket. Walking on, he
came next upon the corpse. Terrified at the sight, and losing all
self-control, he ran and hid himself lest he should be charged with the
crime. But at that moment a police patrol entered the street, and saw
him disappearing just as they came upon the body of the murdered man.
They naturally concluded that the fugitive was the criminal, and made
close search for him. When they presently caught him, they found him
confused and incoherent, a prey to misgiving at the suspicious position
in which he found himself. He was searched, and the sheath of the
stiletto was discovered in his pocket. When tried, it was found that the
sheath exactly fitted the knife lying by the side of the corpse. The
baker was accordingly taken into custody and carried off to prison.

All this went on under the eyes of the judge, yet he did not interpose
to protect an innocent man. The police came and reported both murder and
arrest; still he said nothing. He was at the time the presiding judge in
the criminal court, and it was before him that the wretched baker was
eventually tried. Cambo was a dull, stupid person, and he now conceived
that he was forbidden to act from his own private knowledge in the
matter brought before him--that he must deal with the case according to

the evidence of the witnesses. So he sat on the Bench to hear the
circumstantial proofs against a man who he had no sort of doubt was
actually innocent. When he saw that the evidence was insufficient,
amounting to no more than _semi prova_, half-proof, according to Maltese
law, he used every endeavour to make the accused confess his crime.
Failing in this, he ordered the baker to be "put to the question," with
the result that the man, under torture, confessed to what he had not
done. Cambo was now perfectly satisfied; the accused, innocent in fact,
was guilty according to law, and having thus satisfied himself that his
procedure was right, he carried his strange logic to the end, and
sentenced the baker to death. "Horrible to relate," says the old
chronicle, "the hapless wretch soon after underwent the sentence of the
law."

]

The sad truth came out at last, when the real murderer, having been
convicted and condemned for another crime, confessed that he was guilty
of the murder for which the baker had wrongly suffered. He appealed to
Judge Cambo himself to verify this statement, for he knew that the judge
had seen him. The Grand Master of the Knights of Malta now called upon
Judge Cambo to defend himself from this grave imputation. Cambo freely
admitted his action, but still held that he had only done his duty, that
he was really right in sending an innocent man to an ignominious death
sooner than do violence to his own legal scruples. The Grand Master was
of a more liberal mind, and condemned the judge to degradation and the
forfeiture of his office, ordering him at the same time to provide
handsomely for the family of his victim.

THE D'ANGLADES.

A very flagrant judicial error was committed in Paris towards the latter
end of the same century, mainly through the obstinate persistence of the
Lieutenant-General of Police in believing that he had discovered the
real perpetrators of a theft. Circumstantial evidence was accepted as
conclusive proof in spite of the unblemished character and the high
social position of the accused.

]

The Marquis d'Anglade and his wife lived in the same house with the
Comte and Comtesse de Montgomerie; it was in the Rue Royale, the best
quarter in Paris, and both kept good establishments. The Montgomeries
were the more affluent, had many servants, and a stable full of horses
and carriages. D'Anglade also kept a carriage, but his income was said
to be greatly dependent upon his winnings at the gaming table. The two
families were on terms of very friendly intercourse, frequently visited,
and accepted each other's hospitality. When the Comte and Comtesse went
to their country house, the D'Anglades often accompanied them.

It was to have been so on one occasion, but at the eleventh hour the
Marquis d'Anglade begged to be excused on the score of his wife's
indisposition. The Montgomeries went alone, but took most of their
servants with them. When they returned to Paris, a day earlier than they
were expected, they found the door of their apartments open, although it
had been locked when they left. A little later D'Anglade came in. Having
been supping with other friends, and hearing that the Montgomeries were
in the house, he went in to pay his respects. Madame d'Anglade joined
him, and the party did not break up till a late hour. There was no
suspicion of anything wrong then.

Next morning, however, the Comte de Montgomerie discovered that he had
been the victim of a great robbery. His strong box had been opened by a
false key, and thirteen bags of silver, amounting to 13,000 francs, and
11,000 francs in gold, had been abstracted, also a hundred louis d'or
coined in a new pattern, and a valuable pearl necklace. The police were
summoned, and their chief, the Lieutenant-General, declared that someone
resident in the house must be the thief. Suspicion seems to have
attached at once to the D'Anglades, although they readily offered to
allow their premises to be searched. The search was forthwith made, and
the whole of their boxes, the beds and cupboards, and all receptacles in
the rooms they occupied, were thoroughly ransacked. Only the garrets
remained, and D'Anglade willingly accompanied the officers thither. His
wife, being ill and weak, remained downstairs.

Here, in the garret, the searchers came upon seventy-five louis d'or of
the kind above mentioned, wrapped in a scrap of printed paper part of a
genealogical table, which Montgomerie at once identified as his. The
police now wished to fix the robbery on the D'Anglades, and their
suspicions were strengthened by the poor man's confusion when desired,
as a test, to count out the money before them all. He was trembling, a
further symptom of guilt. However, when the basement was next examined,
the part occupied by the Montgomerie servants, evidence much more
incriminatory was obtained against the latter. In the room where they
slept, five of the missing bags of silver were found, all full, and a
sixth nearly so. None of these servants was questioned, yet they were as
likely to be guilty as the accused, more so indeed. But the police
thought only of arresting the D'Anglades, one of whom was imprisoned in
the Châtelet, the other in the Fors l'Evêque prison.

The prosecution was of the most rancorous and pitiless kind. Those who
sat in the seat of justice prejudiced the case in D'Anglade's disfavour,
and, as he still protested his innocence, ordered him to suffer torture
so as to extort confession. He remained obdurate to the last, was
presently found guilty, although on this incomplete evidence, and was
sentenced to the galleys for life, and his wife to be banished from
Paris, with other penalties and disabilities. D'Anglade was condemned to
join the _chaîne_, the gang of convicts drafted to Toulon, and, having
suffered inconceivably on the road, he died of exhaustion at Marseilles.
His wife was consigned to an underground dungeon, where she was confined
of a girl, and both would have succumbed to the rigours of their
imprisonment, when suddenly the truth came out, and they were released
in time to escape death.

An anonymous letter reached a friend of the D'Anglades, coming from a
man who was about to turn monk, being torn by remorse, which gave him no
rest. This man had been one of several confederates, and he declared
that he knew the chief agent in the theft to have been the Comte de
Montgomerie's almoner, a priest called Gaynard, who had stolen the
money, aided by accomplices, mainly by one Belestre, who, from being in
great indigence, had come to be suddenly and mysteriously rich. Gaynard
and Belestre were both already in custody for a street brawl, and when
interrogated they confessed. Gaynard had given impressions of the
Comte's keys to Belestre, who had had false keys manufactured which
opened the strong box. Belestre was also proved to be in possession of a
fine pearl necklace.

The true criminals were now examined and subjected to torture, when they
completely exonerated D'Anglade. The innocent marquis could not be
recalled to life, but a large sum was subscribed, some £4,000, for his
wife, as a slight compensation for the gross injustice done her. The
Comte de Montgomerie was also ordered to make restitution of the
property confiscated, or to pay its equivalent in money.

LADY MAZEL.

One of the earliest of grave judicial blunders to be found in French
records is commonly called the case of Lady Mazel, who was a lady of
rank, living in a large mansion, of which she occupied two floors
herself: the ground floor as reception-rooms, the first floor as her
bedroom and private apartments. The principal door of her bedroom shut
from the inside with a spring, and when the lady retired for the night
there was no access from without, except by a special key which was
always left on a chair _within_ the chamber. Two other doors of her room
opened upon a back staircase, but these were kept constantly locked. On
the second floor was lodged the family chaplain only; above, on the
third floor, were the servants.'

One Sunday evening the mistress supped with the abbé as was her general
practice; then went to her bedroom, where she was attended by her
waiting-maids. Her butler, by name Le Brun, came to take her orders for
the following day, and then, when the maids withdrew, leaving the key on
the chair inside as usual, he also went away, shutting the spring door
behind him.

Next morning there was no sign of movement from the lady, not at seven
a.m. (her time for waking), nor yet at eight--she was still silent, and
had not summoned her servants. Le Brun, the butler, and the maids began
to be uneasy, and at last the son of the house, who was married and
lived elsewhere, was called in. He expressed his fears that his mother
was ill, or that worse had happened, and a locksmith was called in, and
the door presently broken open.

Le Brun was the first to enter, and he ran at once to the bedside.
Drawing aside the curtains, he saw a sight which made him cry aloud, "My
mistress has been murdered!" and this exclamation was followed by an act
that afterwards went against him. He opened the wardrobe and took out
the strong box. "It is heavy," he said; "at any rate there has been no
robbery." The murder had been committed with horrible violence. The poor
woman had fought hard for life; her hands were all cut and lacerated,
and there were quite fifty wounds on her body. A clasp knife, much
discoloured, was found in the ashes of the fire. Among the bedclothes
they picked up a piece of a coarse lace cravat, and a napkin bearing the
family crest, twisted into a nightcap. The key of the bedroom door,
which had been laid on the chair, had disappeared. Nothing much had been
stolen. The jewels were untouched, but the strong box had been opened
and some of the gold abstracted.

Suspicion fell at once upon the butler, Le Brun. The story he told was
against himself. He said that after leaving his mistress he went down
into the kitchen and fell asleep there. When he awoke he found, to his
surprise, the street-door wide open. He shut it, locked it, and went to
his own bed. In the morning he did his work as usual until the alarm was
given; went to market, called to see his wife, who lived near by, and
asked her to lock up some money, gold crowns and louis d'or, for him.
This was all he had to tell, but on searching him a key was found in his
pocket: a false or skeleton key, the wards of which had been newly
filed, and it fitted nearly all the locks in the house, including the
street-door, the antechamber, and the back door of the lady's bedroom.
The napkin nightcap was tried on his head and fitted him exactly. He was
arrested and shortly afterwards put upon his trial.

It was not alleged that he had committed the murder himself. No blood
had been found on any of his clothes, although there were scratches on
his person. A shirt much stained with blood had been discovered in the
loft, but it did not fit Le Brun, nor was it like any he owned. Nor did
the scrap of coarse lace correspond with any of his cravats; on the
contrary, a maid-servant stated that she thought she recognised it as
belonging to one she had washed for Berry, once a footman in the house.
The supposition was that Le Brun had let some accomplice into the house,
who had escaped after effecting his purpose. This was borne out by the
state of the doors, which showed no signs of having been forced, and by
the discovery of Le Brun's false key.

Le Brun was a man of exemplary character, who had served the family
faithfully for twenty-nine years, and was "esteemed a good husband, a
good father, and a good servant," yet the prosecution seemed satisfied
he was guilty and put him to the torture. In the absence of real proofs
it was hoped, after the cruel custom of the time, to force
self-condemnatory admissions from the accused. The "question
extraordinary" was applied, and the wretched man died on the rack,
protesting his innocence to the last.

A month later the real culprit was discovered. The police of Sens had
arrested a horse-dealer named Berry, the man who had been in Lady
Mazel's service as a lackey, but had been discharged. In his possession
was a gold watch proved presently to have belonged to the murdered
woman. He was carried to Paris, where he was recognised by someone who
had seen him leaving Lady Mazel's house on the night she was murdered,
and a barber who shaved him next morning deposed to having seen that his
hands were much scratched. Berry said that he had been killing a cat.
Put to the torture prior to being broken on the wheel, he made full
confession. At first he implicated the son and daughter-in-law of Lady
Mazel, but when at the point of death he retracted the charge, and said
that he had returned to the house with the full intention of committing
the murder. He had crept in unperceived on the Friday evening, had
gained the loft on the fourth floor, and had lain there concealed until
Sunday morning, subsisting the while on apples and bread. When he knew
the mistress had gone to mass he stole down into her bedroom, where he
tried to conceal himself under the bed. It was too low, and he returned
to the garret and slipped off his coat and waistcoat, and found now that
he could creep under the bed. His hat was in his way, so he made a cap
of the napkin. He lay hidden till night, then came out, and having
secured the bell ropes, he roused the lady and demanded her money. She
resisted bravely, and he stabbed her repeatedly until she was dead. Then
he took the key of the strong box, opened it, and stole all the gold he
could find; after which, using the bedroom key which lay on the chair by
the door, he let himself out, resumed his clothes in the loft, and
walked downstairs. As the street-door was only bolted he easily opened
it, leaving it open behind him. He had meant to escape by a rope ladder
which he had brought for the purpose of letting himself down from the
first floor, but it was unnecessary.

It may be remarked that this confession was not inconsistent with Le
Brun's complicity. But it is to be presumed that Berry would have
brought in Le Brun had he been a confederate, even although it could not
have lessened his own guilt or punishment.

WILLIAM SHAW.

In Britain the list of judicial blunders includes the case of William
Shaw, convicted of the murder of his daughter in Edinburgh simply on the
ground of her own outcry against his ill-usage. They were on bad terms,
the daughter having encouraged the addresses of a man whom he strongly
disliked as a profligate and a debauchee. One evening there was a fresh
quarrel between father and daughter, and bitter words passed which were
overheard by a neighbour. The Shaws occupied one of the tenement houses
still to be seen in Edinburgh, and their flat, the prototype of a modern
popular form of residence in Paris and London, adjoined that of a man
named Morrison.

The words used by Catherine Shaw startled and shocked Morrison. He
heard her repeat several times, "Cruel father, thou art the cause of my
death!" These were followed by awful groans. Shaw had been heard to go
out, and the neighbours ran to his door demanding admittance. As no one
opened and all was now silent within, a constable was called to force an
entrance, and the girl was found weltering in her blood, with a knife by
her side. She was questioned as to the words overheard, was asked if her
father had killed her, and she was just able to nod her head in the
affirmative, as it seemed.

Now William Shaw returned. All eyes were upon him; he turned pale at
meeting the police and others in his apartment, then trembled violently
as he saw his daughter's dead body. Such manifest signs of guilt fully
corroborated the deceased's incriminating words. Last of all, it was
noticed with horror that there was blood on his hands and on his shirt.
He was taken before a magistrate at once, and committed for trial. The
circumstances were all against him. He admitted in his defence the
quarrel, and gave the reason, but declared that he had gone out that
evening leaving his daughter unharmed, and that her death could only be
attributed to suicide. He explained the bloodstains by showing that he
had been bled some days before and that the bandage had become untied.
The prosecution rested on the plain facts, mainly on the girl's words,
"Cruel father, thou art the cause of my death!" and her implied
accusation in her last moments.

Shaw was duly convicted, sentenced, and executed at Leith Walk in
November, 1721, with the full approval of public opinion. Yet the
innocence which he still maintained on the scaffold came out clearly the
following year. The tenant who came into occupation of Shaw's flat found
there a paper which had slipped down an opening near the chimney. It was
a letter written by Catherine Shaw, as was positively affirmed by
experts in handwriting, and it was addressed to her father, upbraiding
him for his barbarity. She was so hopeless of marrying him whom she
loved, so determined not to accept the man her father would have forced
upon her, that she had decided to put an end to the existence which had
become a burden to her. "My death," she went on, "I lay to your charge.
When you read this, consider yourself as the inhuman wretch that plunged
the knife into the bosom of the unhappy Catherine Shaw!"

This letter, on which there was much comment, came at last into the
hands of the authorities, who, having satisfied themselves that it was
authentic, ordered the body of Shaw to be taken down from the gibbet
where it still hung in chains and to be decently interred. As a further
but somewhat empty reparation of his honour, a pair of colours was waved
over his grave.

THE SAILMAKER AND THE BOATSWAIN.

A still more curious story is that of a sailmaker who many years ago
went to spend Christmas with his mother near Deal. On his way he spent a
night at an inn at Deal, and shared a bed with the landlady's uncle,
the boatswain of an Indiaman, who had just come ashore. In the morning
the uncle was missing, the bed was saturated with blood, and the young
sailmaker had disappeared. The bloodstains were soon traced through the
house, and beyond, as far as the pier-head. It was naturally concluded
that the boatswain had been murdered and his body thrown into the sea. A
hue-and-cry was at once set up for the young man, who was arrested the
same evening in his mother's house.

He was taken red-handed, with ample proofs of his guilt upon him. His
clothes were stained with blood; in his pockets were a knife and a
strange silver coin, both of which were sworn to most positively as the
property of the missing boatswain. The evidence was so conclusive that
no credence could be given to the prisoner's defence, which was
ingenious but most improbable. His story was that he woke in the night
and asked the boatswain the way to the garden, that he could not open
the back door, and borrowed his companion's clasp-knife to lift the
latch. When he returned to bed the boatswain was gone; why or where he
had no idea.

The youth was convicted and sent to the gallows, but by strange fortune
he escaped death. The hanging was done so imperfectly that his feet
touched the ground, and when taken down he was soon resuscitated by his
friends. They made him leave as soon as he could move, and he went down
to Portsmouth, where he engaged on board a man-of-war about to start for
a foreign station. On his return from the West Indies three years later
to be paid off, he had gained the rating of a master's mate, and gladly
took service on another ship. The first person he met on board was the
boatswain he was supposed to have murdered!

The explanation given was sufficiently strange. On the day of his
supposed murder the boatswain had been bled by a barber for a pain in
the side. During the absence of his bedfellow the bandage had come off
his arm, which bled copiously, and he got up hurriedly to go in search
of the barber. The moment he got into the street he was seized by a
press-gang and carried off to the pier. There a man-of-war's boat was in
waiting, and he was taken off to a ship in the Downs, which sailed
direct for the East Indies. He never thought of communicating with his
friends; letter-writing was not much indulged in at that period.

Doubts have been thrown upon this story, which rests mainly upon local
tradition. As no body was found, it does not seem probable that there
would be a conviction for murder. Of the various circumstances on which
it was based, that of the possession of the knife was explained, but not
the possession of the silver coin. It has been suggested that when the
sailmaker took it out of the boatswain's pocket the coin had stuck
between the blades of the knife.

BRUNELL THE INNKEEPER.

The astute villainy of a criminal in covering up his tracks was never
more successful than in the case of Brunell, the innkeeper at a village
near Hull. A traveller was stopped upon the road and robbed of a purse
containing twenty guineas. But he pursued his journey uninjured, while
the highwayman rode off in another direction.

Presently the traveller reached the Bell Inn, kept by Brunell, to whom
he recounted his misadventure, adding that no doubt the thief would be
caught, for the stolen gold was marked, according to his rule when
travelling. Having ordered supper in a private room, the gentleman was
soon joined by the landlord, who had heard the story, and now wished to
learn at what hour the robbery took place.

"It was just as night fell," replied the traveller.

"Then I can perhaps find the thief," said the landlord. "I strongly
suspect one of my servants, John Jennings by name, and for the following
reason. The man has been very full of money of late. This afternoon I
sent him out to change a guinea. He brought it back saying he could not
get the change, and as he was in liquor I was resolved to discharge him
to-morrow. But then I was struck with the curious fact that the guinea
was not the same as that which I had given, and that it was marked. Now
I hear that those you lost were all marked, and I am wondering whether
this particular guinea was yours."

"May I see it?" asked the traveller.

"Unfortunately I paid it away not long since to a man who lives at a
distance, and who has gone home. But my servant Jennings, if he is the
culprit, will probably have others in his possession. Let us go and
search him."

They went to Jennings's room and examined his pockets. He was in a deep
drunken sleep, and they came without difficulty upon a purse containing
nineteen guineas. The traveller recognised his purse, and identified by
the mark his guineas. The man was roused and arrested on this seemingly
conclusive evidence. He stoutly denied his guilt, but was sent for trial
and convicted. The case was thought to be clearly proved. Although the
prosecutor could not swear to the man himself, as the robber had been
masked, he did to his guineas. Again, the prisoner's master told the
story of his substitution of the marked for the other coin; while the
man to whom the landlord had paid the marked guinea produced it in
court. A comparison with the rest of the money left no doubt that these
guineas were one and the same.

The unfortunate Jennings was duly sentenced to death, and executed at
Hull. Yet, within a twelvemonth, it came out that the highwayman was
Brunell himself. The landlord had been arrested on a charge of robbing
one of his lodgers, and convicted; but he fell dangerously ill before
execution. As he could not live, he made full confession of his crimes,
including that for which Jennings had suffered.

It seemed that he had ridden sharply home after the theft, and, finding
a debtor had called, gave him one of the guineas, not knowing they were
marked. When his victim arrived and told his story, Brunell became
greatly alarmed. Casting about for some way of escape, he decided to
throw the blame on his servant, whom he had actually sent out to change
a guinea, but who had failed, as we know, and had brought back the same
coin. As Jennings was drunk, Brunell sent him to bed, and then easily
planted the incriminating purse in the poor man's clothes. No sort of
indemnity seems to have been paid to Jennings's relations or friends.

DU MOULIN'S CASE.

Of the same class was the conviction of a French refugee, Du Moulin, who
had fled to England from the religious persecutions in his own country.
He brought a small capital with him, which he employed in buying goods
condemned at the Custom-house, disposing of them by retail. The business
was "shady" in its way, as the goods in question were mostly smuggled,
but Du Moulin's honesty was not impeached until he was found to be
passing false gold. He made it a frequent practice to return money paid
him by his customers, declaring it was bad. The fact could not be
denied, but the suspicion was that he had himself changed it after the
first payment; and this happened so often that he presently got into
disrepute, losing both his business and his credit. The climax came when
he received a sum of £78 in guineas and Portugal gold, and "scrupled,"
or questioned, several of the pieces. But he took them, giving his
receipt. In a few days he brought back six coins, which he insisted were
of base metal. His client Harris as positively declared that they were
not the same as those he had paid. Then there was a fierce dispute. Du
Moulin was quite certain; he had put the whole £78 into a drawer and
left the money there till he had to use it, when part of it was at once
refused. Harris continued to protest, threatening Du Moulin with a
charge of fraud, but presently he paid. He lost no opportunity, however,
of exposing Du Moulin's conduct, doing so so often, and so libellously,
that the other soon brought an action for defamation of character.

This drove Harris to set the law in motion also, on his own
information, backed by the reports of others on whom Du Moulin had
forced false money. A warrant was issued against the Frenchman, his
house was searched, and in a secret drawer all the apparatus of a
counterfeiter of coin was discovered--files, moulds, chemicals, and many
implements. This evidence was damnatory; his guilt seemed all the more
clear from the impudence with which he had assailed Harris and his
insistence in passing the bad money. Conviction followed, and he was
sentenced to death. But for a mere accident, which brought about
confession, he would certainly have suffered on the scaffold.

A day or two before he was to have been executed, one Williams, a seal
engraver, was thrown from his horse and killed, whereupon his wife fell
ill, and in poignant remorse confessed that her husband was one of a
gang of counterfeiters, and that she helped him by "putting off" the
coins. One of the gang hired himself as servant to Du Moulin, and, using
a whole set of false keys, soon became free of all drawers and
receptacles, in which he planted large quantities of false money,
substituting them for an equal number of good pieces.

The members of this gang were arrested and examined separately. They
altogether repudiated the charge, but Du Moulin's servant was
dumbfounded when some bad money was found in his quarters. On this he
turned king's evidence, and his accomplices were convicted.

CALAS.

A case in which "justice" was manifestly unjust is that of the shameful
prosecution and punishment of Calas, a judicial murder begun in wicked
intolerance and carried out with almost inconceivable cruelty.

Bitter, implacable hatred of the Protestant or Reformed faith and all
who professed it survived in the South of France till late in the
eighteenth century. There was no more bigoted city than Toulouse, which
had had its own massacre ten years before St. Bartholomew, and
perpetuated the memory of this "deliverance," as it was called, by
public fêtes on its anniversary. It was on the eve of the fête of 1761
that a terrible catastrophe occurred in the house of one Jean Calas, a
respectable draper, who had the misfortune to be a heretic--in other
words, a criminal, according to the ideas of Toulouse.

Marc Antoine Galas, the eldest son of the family, was found in a
cupboard just off the shop, hanging by the neck, and quite dead. The
shocking discovery was made by the third brother, Pierre. It was then
between nine and ten p.m.; he had gone downstairs with a friend who had
supped with them, and had come suddenly upon the corpse.

The alarm was soon raised in the town, and the officers of the law
hastened to the spot. In Toulouse the police was in the hands of the
_capitouls_, functionaries akin to the sheriffs and common councillors
of a corporation, and one of the leading men among them just then was a
certain David de Beaudrigue, who became the evil genius of this
unfortunate Calas family. He was bigoted, ambitious, self-sufficient,
full of his own importance, fiercely energetic in temperament, and
undeviating in his pursuit of any fixed idea.

Now, when called up by the watch and told of the mysterious death of
Marc Antoine Calas, he jumped to the conclusion that it was a murder,
and that the perpetrator was Jean Calas; in other words, that Calas was
a parricide. The motives of the crime were not far to seek, he thought.
One Calas son had already abjured the Protestant for the true faith,
this now dead son was said to have been anxious to go over, and the
father was resolved to prevent it at all cost. It was a commonly
accepted superstition in those dark times that the Huguenots would
decree the death of any traitors to their own faith.

Full of this baseless prepossession, De Beaudrigue thought only of what
would confirm it. He utterly neglected the first duty of a police
officer: to seek with an unbiassed mind for any signs or

indications that might lead to the detection of the real criminals. He
should have at once examined the wardrobe in which the body was found
pendent; the shop close at hand, the passage that led from it through a
small courtyard into the back street. It was perfectly possible for
ill-disposed people to enter the shop from the front street and escape
by this passage, and possibly they might leave traces behind them.

De Beaudrigue thought only of securing those whom he already in his own
mind condemned as guilty, and hurrying upstairs found the Calas, husband
and wife, whom he at once arrested; Pierre Calas, whom he also
suspected, was given in charge of two soldiers; the maid-servant, too,
was taken, as well as two friends of the family who happened to be in
the house at the time. When another _capitoul_ mildly suggested a little
less precipitation, De Beaudrigue replied that he would be answerable,
and that he was acting in a holy cause.

The whole party was carried off to gaol. When the elder Calas asked to
be allowed to put a candlestick where he might find it easily on his
return, he was told sardonically, "You will not return in a hurry." The
request and its answer went far to produce a revulsion in his favour
when the facts became known. The wretched man never re-entered his
house, but he passed it on his way to the scaffold and knelt down to
bless the place where he had lived happily for many years, and from
which he had been so ruthlessly torn.

On the way to gaol the prisoners were greeted with yells and
execrations. It was already taken for granted that they had murdered
Marc Antoine. Arrived at the Hôtel de Ville, there was a short halt
while the accusation was prepared charging the whole party as principals
or accessories. An interrogatory followed which was no more than a
peremptory summons to confess. "Come," said the _capitoul_ to Pierre,
"confess you killed him." Denial only exasperated De Beaudrigue, who
began at once to threaten Calas and the rest with the torture.

There was absolutely no evidence whatever against the accused, and in
the absence of it recourse was had to an ancient ecclesiastical
practice, the _monitoire_, a solemn appeal made to the religious
conscience of all who knew anything to come forward and declare it. This
notice was affixed to the pulpits of churches and in street corners. It
assumed the guilt of the Calas family quite illegally, because without
the smallest proof, and it warned everyone to come forward and speak,
whether from hearsay or of their own knowledge. Nothing followed the
_monitoire_, so these pious sons of the Church went a step farther and
obtained a _fulmination_; a threat to excommunicate all who could speak
yet would not. This was duly launched, and caused great alarm. Religious
sentiment had reached fever pitch. The burial of Marc Antoine with all
the rites of the Church was a most imposing ceremony. He lay in state.
The catafalque bore a notice to the effect that he had abjured heresy.
He was honoured as a martyr; a little more and he would have been
canonised as a saint.

Still, nothing conclusive was forthcoming against the Calas. One or two
witnesses declared that they had heard disputes, swore to piteous
appeals made to the father by the dead son, to cries such as "I am being
strangled!" "They are murdering me!" and this was all. It was all for
the prosecution; not a word was heard in defence. The Protestant friends
of the family were not competent to bear witness; the accused, moreover,
were permitted to call no one. It would be hard to credit the
disabilities still imposed upon the French Huguenots were it not that
the laws in England against Roman Catholics at that time were little
less severe. In France all offices, all professions were interdicted to
Protestants. They could not be ushers or police agents, they were
forbidden to trade as printers, booksellers, watchmakers, or grocers,
they must not practise as doctors, surgeons, or apothecaries.

Although there was no case, the prosecution was obstinately persisted
in, not merely because the law officers were full of prejudice, but
because, if they failed to secure conviction, they would be liable to a
counter action for their high-handed abuse of legal powers. As has been
said, no pains were taken at the first discovery of the death to examine
the spot or investigate the circumstances. It was all the better for the
prosecution that nothing of the kind was done. Had the police approached
the matter with an open mind, judging calmly from the facts apparent,
they would have been met at once by an ample, nay, overwhelming--explanation.
There can be no doubt that Marc Antoine Calas committed suicide. The
proofs were plain. This eldest son was a trouble to his parents, ever
dissatisfied with his lot, disliking his father's business, eager to
take up some other line, notably that of an advocate. Here, however, he
encountered the prejudice of the times, which forbade this profession to
a Protestant; and it was his known dissatisfaction with this law that
led to the conjecture--and there was little else--that he wished to
abjure his faith. At last Marc Antoine offered to join his father, but
was told that until he learnt the business and showed more aptitude he
could not hope for a partnership. From this moment he fell away, took to
evil courses, frequented the worst company, was seen at the billiard
tables and tennis courts of Toulouse, and became much addicted to
gambling. When not given to debauchery he was known as a silent, gloomy,
discontented youth, who quarrelled with his lot and complained always of
his bad luck. On the very morning of his death he had lost heavily--a
sum of money entrusted him by his father to exchange from silver into
gold.

All this pointed to the probability of suicide. The Calas themselves,
however, would not hear of any such solution. Suicide was deemed
disgraceful and dishonourable. Sooner than suggest suicide, the elder
Calas was prepared to accept the worst. One of the judges was strongly
of opinion that it was clearly a case of

_felo de se_, but he was overruled by the rest, who were equally
convinced of the guilt of the Calas. Not a single witness of the 150
examined could speak positively; not one had seen the crime committed;
they contradicted each other, and their statements were improbable and
opposed to common sense. Moreover, the murder was morally and physically
impossible. Was it likely that a family party collected round the
supper-table would take one of their number downstairs and hang him?
Could such wrong be done to a young and vigorous man without some sort
of struggle that would leave its traces on himself and in the scene
around?

But the bigoted and prejudiced judges of Toulouse gave judgment against
the accused; yet, although so satisfied of their guilt, they ordered the
torture to be applied to extort full confession. The prisoners
appealing, the case was heard in the local parliament, and the first
decision upheld. Thirteen judges sat; of these, seven were for a
sentence of death, three for preliminary torture, two voted for a new
inquiry based on the supposition of suicide, one alone was for
acquittal. As this was not a legal majority, one dissident was won over,
and sentence of death was duly passed on Calas, who was to suffer
torture first, in the hope that by his admissions on the rack the guilt
of the rest might be assured.

The sentence was executed under circumstances so horrible and
heartrending that humanity shudders at hearing them. Calas was taken
first to the question chamber and put "upon the first button." There,
being warned that he had but a short time to live and must suffer
torments, he was sworn and exhorted to make truthful answer to the
interrogatories, to all of which, after the rack had been applied, he
replied denying his guilt. He was then put "upon the second button"; the
torture increased, and still he protested his innocence. Last of all, he
was subjected to the question extraordinary, and being still firm, he
was handed over to the reverend father to be prepared for death. He
suffered on the wheel, being "broken alive"; the process lasted two
whole hours, but at the end of that time the executioner put him out of
his misery by strangling him. When asked for the last time, on the very
brink of the grave, to make a clean breast of his crime and give up the
names of his confederates, he only answered, "Where there has been no
crime there can be no accomplices." His constancy won him the respect
of all who witnessed his execution. "He died," said a monk "like one of
our Catholic martyrs."

This noble end caused deep chagrin to his judges; they were consumed
with secret anxiety, having hoped to the last that a full confession
would exonerate them from their cruelty. At Toulouse there had been a
fresh outburst of fanaticism, in which more lives were lost; and now,
the news of Calas' execution reaching the city, open war was declared
against all Huguenots. But a reaction was at hand, caused by the very
excess of this religious intolerance. The terrible story began to
circulate through France and beyond. The rest of the accused had been
released, not without reluctance, by the authorities of Toulouse, but
Pierre Calas had been condemned to banishment. Another brother had
escaped to Geneva, where he met with much sympathy.

The feeling in other Protestant countries was intense, and loud protests
were published. But the chief champion and vindicator of the Calas
family was Voltaire, who seized eagerly at an opportunity of attacking
the religious bigotry of his countrymen. He soon raised a storm through
Europe, writing to all his disciples, denouncing the judges of Toulouse,
who had killed an innocent man. "Everyone is up in arms. Foreign
nations, who hate us and beat us, are full of indignation. Nothing since
St. Bartholomew has so greatly disgraced human nature."

Voltaire bent all the powers of his great mind to collecting evidence
and making out a strong case. The Encyclopædists, with d'Alembert at
their head, followed suit. All Paris, all France grew excited. The widow
Calas was brought forward to make a fresh appeal to the king in council.
The whole case was revived in a lengthy and tedious procedure, and in
the end it was decided to reverse the conviction. "There is still
justice in the world!" cried Voltaire--"still some humanity left.
Mankind are not all villains and scoundrels."

Three years after the judicial murder of Jean Calas all the accused were
formally pronounced innocent, and it was solemnly declared that Jean
Calas was illegally done to death. But the family were utterly ruined,
and, although entitled to proceed against the judges for damages, they
had no means to go to law. The Queen said the French wits had drunk
their healths, but had given them nothing to drink in return.

It is satisfactory to know, however, that some retribution overtook the
principal mover in this monstrous case. The fierce fanatic, David de
Beaudrigue, was dismissed from all his offices, and being threatened
with so many lawsuits, he went out of his mind. He was perpetually
haunted with horrors, always saw the scaffold and the executioner at his
grisly task, and at last, in a fit of furious madness, he threw himself
out of the window. The first time he escaped death, but he made another
attempt, and died murmuring the word "Calas" with his last breath.

A GROSS PERVERSION OF JUSTICE AT NUREMBERG.

On the 30th of January, 1790, at five o'clock in the morning, the
Nuremberg merchant Johann Marcus Sterbenk was awakened by his maid with
the unpleasant news that his house had been broken into and the
counting-house robbed of its strong-box, containing the sum of 2,000
gulden. It was a heavy iron strong-box, standing on four legs, and was
painted in dark green stripes and ornamented on the top surface and lock
with leaves and flowers. The sum stolen meant a small fortune in those
days. The counting-house had a window which looked out on to the
staircase, and some ten days before, when the key of the door had been
mislaid, it had been necessary to remove a pane of glass from the window
in order to reach the door from within. On getting to his
counting-house, the merchant found that the pane of glass had again been
removed, and that the door of the room was standing open. The main front
door also was open, although the maid had declared that she had bolted
it securely the evening before.

The robbery had clearly been the work of someone who knew the locality
well; yet, although several people swore to having seen
suspicious-looking men in the neighbourhood about two o'clock in the
morning, they were unable to identify or describe them, and for a time
justice was at fault.

Suddenly suspicion fell on one Schönleben, Sterbenk's messenger; and ere
long all agreed that he must be the culprit. There was absolutely no
evidence--nothing more than his own careless words, which were seized
upon and twisted against him. It was now remembered that his previous
life had not been blameless, and every little incident was seized upon
to his discredit. Thus it was said that the day after the robbery his
brother was seen in close converse with him at his house; after that the
brother drove out of town with his cart, in which, according to general
belief, the strong-box was concealed. Again, it was noted that
Schönleben had been often late at business, and again, that the day
after the robbery he appeared extremely lightheaded.

On the strength of these suspicions Schönleben was arrested, and with
him a poor beadmaker, Beutner by name, who was suspected of being his
accomplice. The only connection between the two was that Beutner had
once helped Schönleben to carry a load of wood into the Sterbenks'
house; and as he was passing the window of the counting-house, it was
said that he gazed spell-bound at the sight of all the money inside. For
not more than this the two were lodged in gaol and subjected to
criminal examination. It was hardly thought possible that they could be
innocent men. A new clue was, however, soon discovered. A barber named
Kirchmeier called on Sterbenk and declared that on the day of the
robbery he had seen a cash-box identical in every respect with the one
stolen. It was in the room of a working gilder, Mannert, who lived in
the same house as Schönleben the messenger. On making a second call at
the same room a few days later there was no box to be seen. Kirchmeier
deposed that the box was standing under the table near the oven and
behind the door; and as this witness was a respectable, well-to-do
citizen, bearing the character of an upright, religious man, his
testimony was deemed unimpeachable. The poor gilder, Mannert, had also
always borne the best of characters, but he, too, was arrested, with his
wife and sons. When examined, he denied absolutely that he had ever
owned such a box, and although he admitted a slight acquaintance with
Schönleben, and that he was employed by Sterbenk, he declared that he
knew nothing of the messenger's private affairs.

Then the examination of the Mannerts was renewed; but as they still
persisted in repudiating all knowledge of the strong-box the Court had
recourse to more drastic measures. In those days it was not absolutely
required that witnesses should take the oath, which was reserved for
extreme cases; it was a last step when evidence was imperfect, and the
punishment for perjury was very severe. Kirchmeier signified his perfect
willingness to be sworn, and eventually reiterated his charges upon
oath. "That which I saw, I saw," he averred. "The green-painted
cash-box, with green wooden legs, I saw in the rooms of the man who is
now kneeling imploringly before me. I cannot help it. I am quite
convinced that in this case I am not mistaken. If I am, his blood be on
my head."

The Court, after such solemn testimony, could not exonerate the Mannerts
and Schönleben; and the public shared this conviction. Excitement over
the case was not confined to Nuremberg, but spread through all Germany.
So high ran feeling against the accused for their obstinate pleas of
innocence, that the mob smashed Schönleben's windows and killed his
youngest child as it lay in its mother's arms.

Mannert's wife and sons corroborated his statements. Nevertheless, the
barber, Kirchmeier, when confronted with them, stuck to his story. The
entire absence of all malicious motive strengthened his testimony and
gained him full credence from the Nuremberg authorities. So the Mannert
family were also consigned to durance, while their residence was
searched from top to bottom. Nothing incriminating was found; only in a
lumber room one of the planks appeared to have been recently disturbed,
and this, although it led to no further discovery, was deemed highly
suspicious.

Meanwhile, Schönleben had been again questioned, and still stoutly
denied his guilt. When asked as to his accomplices and confederates, he
replied that he could have had none, having committed no crime. Beutner,
the beadmaker, had no doubt asked him once where Sterbenk's
counting-house was situated, and whether the family all slept upstairs,
but, after all, that might be mere curiosity. Beutner excused himself by
saying he must have been drunk when he asked such questions--at least,
he had no recollection of putting them. Several independent witnesses
deposed to having been with Beutner on the night of the robbery till 2
a.m., after which they walked home with him.

The perverse cruelty of the Nuremberg Court, which had accepted
Kirchmeier's story so readily, was not yet exhausted, and, very much as
in the case of Calas, given on a previous page, it persisted in seeking
a confession as its own best justification. Mannert was still obdurate,
however, and force was now applied. Floggings were tried, but quite
without result, and at last, a fresh search of the dwellings of both
Mannert and Schönleben having proved fruitless, it was resolved to
appeal to the antiquated instruments of Nuremberg justice, surviving
still, within ten years of the nineteenth century--the priest and the
rack.

The power of the priest to extort confession, even from the most
hardened criminals, had often proved successful heretofore, and public
expectation was raised high that justice would once more be vindicated
in this fashion. But the priests failed now. Neither Mannert, nor his
wife, nor his sons would make the slightest acknowledgment of their
guilt, and it became clear that they had won over the priests to their
side. Still the Court was resolute to follow out its own line of action.
Confession having failed, it determined to try the effect of flogging
the woman, or, if her health did not allow such an extreme proceeding,
she was to be strictly isolated, and kept upon bread and water in the
darkest dungeon of the prison; lastly, if these merciless measures
proved of no avail, she was to be subjected to the rack.

Schönleben, from the recesses of the prison, now made a desperate effort
to free himself by reviving suspicion against Beutner. So absolutely
helpless and hopeless had justice now become that the Nuremberg Court
actually accepted a dream as evidence. Schönleben pretended that he had
seen the missing cash-box under a heap of wood at Beutner's house--seen
it only in his dreams, however. This "baseless fabric" of his
imagination sufficed to send the officers to search Beutner's house,
and although nothing was discovered, public opinion agreed with the
judges in again accusing Beutner, and he was held to be implicated,
despite the renewed proof of a satisfactory _alibi_. Nobody believed
Beutner's witnesses.

The next incident in these shameful proceedings was the death of Frau
Mannert, who succumbed to the cruel treatment she had received. She died
protesting her innocence to the last, and the priests who shrived her in
the dark underground cell where she breathed her last expressed much
indignation at the shocking ill-usage to which she owed her death.

Four more months passed, bringing no relaxation in the law's severity
towards those whom it still gripped in its cruel clutches. Who shall say
what their fate might have been? But now, at last, an unexpected turn
was given to the inquiry, and by pure accident justice got upon the
right track. Certain rumours reached the ears of one of the judges, who
proceeded to investigate them. These rumours started from a beer-shop,
where someone in his cups had been heard grossly to abuse a locksmith,
Gösser by name, and his assistant, Blösel. The vituperation ended in a
direct charge of complicity in the Sterbenk robbery. Blösel sat
speechless under the attack, but his master, Gösser, tried lamely to
repudiate the charges. It was remembered now against these two that,
although miserably poor till a certain date, they had become suddenly
rich; had bought good clothes and silver watches, had launched out into
many extravagances, and were always ready to stand treat to their
friends. Gösser just now had applied for a passport to leave Nuremberg
and go to Dresden; and passports were in those days rather expensive
luxuries, and generally beyond the means of persons in straitened
circumstances. Schönleben once more contributed his quota to the newly
formulated charge; he had always suspected him, he said; and this time
he had good reason to do so. When the police arrested Gösser and his
assistant (they were always glad to arrest anybody), the two prisoners
incontinently confessed their crime.

Gösser, a man of thirty-three, had settled in Nuremberg with his wife
and family about a year previously. He was a shiftless, aimless fellow,
and it was only by serious money sacrifices that he obtained admission
into the guild of locksmiths in Nuremberg. Having thus started in debt,
he was never able to get clear

again. He was often in want of the necessaries of life; his relations
would not help him; and he began to despair of ever gaining an honest
livelihood. Having once visited Sterbenk's house, he had quickly
realised how easily the counting-house door might be forced. The
criminal idea of thus obtaining funds once formed, it grew and gained
more mastery, till at length, on the night of the 29th of January, he
proceeded to perpetrate the theft. He went to Sterbenk's, opened the
outer door, which he said was unbolted, and silently, and without
difficulty, entered the counting-house. Finding the strong-box too heavy
to move by himself, he had gone home and awakened his assistant, whom
he persuaded to join him. Together they had crept back, lifted the
cash-box, and, without interference, carried it home. While Gösser's
wife was out of the way, they opened it and divided the spoil. The box
they kept close hidden for a long time, but at last broke it up and
threw the pieces bit by bit into the river. After the robbery Gösser
confessed to his wife, who, overcome with fear, implored her husband to
return the money. But he paid some pressing debts and bought what he
needed for his business, and now hoped that he was on the high road to
success and competence. Gösser declared that no one had instigated him
to the deed, that he alone was responsible, and had had no accomplice
beyond Blösel; and the confessions of his wife and Blösel corroborated
these statements.

An examination of Gösser's dwelling also confirmed them, while portions
of the strong-box were by-and-bye found in the river. But it was not
till after there remained no shadow of doubt of the truth of Gösser's
story that the other prisoners were lightened of their chains, and only
by degrees were they informed of the new turn of affairs.

Kirchmeier was arrested on the 4th of November, and feeling ran
tremendously strong against him as the original cause of so much cruel
injustice. His three confessions were read out to him, and he was asked
if he still stood by them. Strange to state, he firmly reiterated them,
continuing to do so even when the fragments of the box and the plainly
rebutting evidence were laid before him. The only plausible solution of
his extraordinary conduct was that he suffered from hallucinations. He
had only lately recovered from a bad attack of bilious fever; and it was
quite probable that in his convalescent condition the excitement of the
robbery working on a disordered mind produced an impression which had
all the weight and force of actual tangible fact. Some such view of his
conduct was evidently taken by the Court; for, although arraigned for
perjury, he was acquitted, and absolved from having falsely sworn from
any evil motive. Yet his fellow-townspeople could not readily forgive
him, or forget the sufferings he had brought upon the innocent victims
of his delusions. He was scouted by his old friends and deserted by his
customers; and, to escape universal execration and the starvation that
threatened him, he settled in another part of Germany. Gösser and Blösel
were, of course, duly punished.

"THE BLUE DRAGOON."

This case,[6] in which Justice got upon a false scent and narrowly
escaped the commission of a tragical blunder, is remarkable for the
tortuous course it ran before the truth was at last reached. In a
certain Dutch town there lived, towards the close of the last century,
an elderly widow lady, Madame Andrecht. She was fairly well-to-do, and
possessed some valuable silver, although she lived in a quiet, retired
street and in a not very reputable locality. Her neighbours were all of
the poorer classes; and the town ditch, which was navigable, flowed at
the bottom of her back garden. Hers was a tranquil, uneventful
existence; she was served by one elderly female servant, and her only
recreation was a yearly visit paid to a married son in the country, when
she locked up the house and took the servant away with her.

On the 30th of June, 17--, she returned home, after one of these visits,
to find her house broken into and most of her possessions gone. It was
clear that the thieves were acquainted with the interior of the house,
and had set to work in a systematic fashion, although some of the
plunder had escaped them. A window leading from the garden had been
forced; the back door was open, and footsteps could be traced down the
garden to the hedge at the bottom over the ditch. This pointed to the
removal of the booty by boat.

The discovery of this robbery caused a great sensation, and the house
was soon surrounded by a gaping crowd, whom the police had some trouble
in controlling. One, an irrepressible baker, managed to make his way
inside, and his acquaintances awaited with impatience the result of his
investigations. But on his return he assumed a great air of mystery, and
refused to satisfy their curiosity. Everyone was left to evolve his own
theory, and the most voluble of the chatterers was a wool-spinner,
Leendert van N----, who talked so pointedly that before evening he was
summoned to the town house and called upon for an explanation by the
burgomaster. In a hesitating, stammering way, as if dreading to
incriminate anyone, he unfolded his suspicions, which were to the
following effect:--

At the end of the street stood a small alehouse, kept by an ex-soldier,
Nicholas D----, commonly known as the "Blue Dragoon." Some years
previously he had courted and married a servant of Madame Andrecht. The
mistress had never liked the match, and had done all she could to
prevent the young people from meeting. Nicholas had managed, however, to
pay the girl secret visits, stealing at night across Leendert's back
garden and over the hedge. Leendert objected, and begged Nicholas to
discontinue these clandestine proceedings. Later on he discovered that
the ardent lover used to row along the fosse and enter the garden that
way. All this was ancient history, but it was brought back to his mind
by the robbery. His suspicion had been emphasised by the fact of his
finding a handkerchief on the fosse bank, opposite the garden, only ten
days before. This handkerchief proved to be marked with the initials N.
D.

Suspicion, once raised against the dragoon, was strengthened by other
circumstances. During the first search of the house a half-burnt paper
had been picked up, presumably a pipelight. On examination, it was found
to be an excise receipt, and further investigation proved it to have
belonged to Nicholas D----. This evidence, such as it was, seemed to
point to the same person, and, after a short consultation among the
magistrates, orders were given for his arrest, and that of his wife,
father, and brother. His house was ransacked, but the closest search
failed to reveal the missing plate; only in one drawer a memorandum-book
was discovered which was proved beyond doubt to have belonged to Madame
Andrecht.

Nothing resulted from a first examination to which the prisoner was
subjected. He answered every question in an open, straightforward
manner; but while admitting the facts of his courtship, as told by the
wool-spinner, he could adduce no rebutting evidence in his own defence.
The other members of the household corroborated what he had said; and
the wife declared strenuously that the note-book had not been in the
drawer the previous week, when she had removed all the contents in order
to clean the press. Their attitude and their earnest protestations of
innocence made a favourable impression on the judge; the neighbours
testified to their honest character and general good name. Still,
Nicholas could not be actually exonerated; the note-book, the charred
receipt, and the handkerchief were so many unanswered points against
him.

At this stage of the inquiry a new witness came forward and strengthened
the suspicion against Nicholas D----. A respectable citizen, a wood
merchant, voluntarily appeared before the authorities and made a
statement, which, he said, had been weighing on his conscience ever
since the robbery. It would seem that a carpenter, Isaac van C----, owed
this man money; and he had been obliged to put pressure upon him. The
carpenter had begged him to delay proceedings, telling him of the
difficulty he also had in collecting his dues, and showing him some
silver plate he had taken in pledge from one of his debtors. After some
discussion, the wood merchant agreed to accept the plate as part payment
of the carpenter's bill. When the robbery became known, the wood
merchant began to think the articles pledged to him might have formed
part of the stolen property. He had no reason to suspect his debtor, the
carpenter, of being concerned in the theft, but still he thought the
clue ought to be followed up.

The carpenter was immediately sent for and examined. He said that the
debtor of whom he spoke to the wood merchant was Nicholas D----, who
owed him sixty gulden for work done on the premises, and as he would not
or was unable to pay, he (the carpenter) had peremptorily asked for his
money. Nicholas then offered him some old silver, which he said had
belonged to his father, and asked him to dispose of it through an agent
in Amsterdam or some distant town. Nicholas was brought in, and,
confronted with the carpenter, did not deny that he owed the debt and
could not see how to pay it; but when the plate was shown him he
hesitated, turned pale, and declared he knew nothing about it. His
nervousness and prevarication excited a general doubt as to his previous
statements. This was further increased by the examination of the
carpenter's private account-book, which contained an entry of the old
silver received from the innkeeper. The carpenter's housekeeper and
apprentice also bore witness to the agreement.

The general feeling in the town was now very strong against Nicholas
D----. He was committed to the town prison, and his relatives placed
under closest surveillance. All, nevertheless, persisted in their story.
In order to ascertain the truth, justice was prepared to go to the
extreme length of applying torture to force a confession from the
obstinate accused. But happily, just as the "question" was about to be
employed, the following letter was received:--

"Before I leave the country and betake myself where I shall be
beyond the reach either of the Court of M---- or the military
tribunal of the garrison, I would save the unfortunate persons who
are now prisoners at M----. Beware of punishing the innkeeper, his
wife, his father, or his brother, for a crime of which they are not
guilty. How the story of the carpenter is connected with theirs I
cannot conjecture. I have heard of it with the greatest surprise.
The latter may not himself be entirely innocent. Let the judge pay
attention to this remark. You may spare yourself the trouble of
inquiring after me. If the wind is favourable, by the time you read
this letter I shall be on my passage to England.

"JOSEPH CHRISTIAN RUHLER,
Formerly Corporal in the Company of Le Lery."

The receipt of this letter started a new set of conjectures, followed up
by inquiries. Captain le Lery's company was quartered in the town, and
Corporal Ruhler had, as a matter of fact, belonged to it, but he had
mysteriously and suddenly disappeared about the time of the robbery. No
trace of him had been found. His letter seemed to throw light upon his
disappearance, yet when it was shown to his captain and some of his
comrades it was unanimously declared to be a forgery. What could have
been the writer's object in fabricating it? Various theories were
advanced, the most popular being that some guilty party, knowing the
corporal had gone, thought to implicate him and save the accused from
the torture, which might have driven them to full confession, in which
the names of all accomplices would have been divulged. It was a clumsy
explanation, but the only feasible one forthcoming. Every effort was
made to discover the author of the letter, but without avail.

Now a fresh witness volunteered information--a merchant who lived in
Madame Andrecht's neighbourhood, and who had left home about the time
that the robbery had been perpetrated. He had just returned, to find
that the mysterious affair was the talk of the town--indeed, he had had
a full account of it from his fellow-passengers in the coach which
brought him home. He now came to the authorities and told them what he
knew. A day or two before the robbery a carpenter, Isaac van C----, had
come to him seeking to borrow his boat, which the merchant kept in the
fosse just behind his warehouse. Isaac made some pretence for wanting
the boat which was not altogether satisfactory to the merchant, who
refused to lend it, but yielded when the carpenter declared he wished to
use it for the purposes of fishing. The next morning the boat was
returned, but was not in exactly its right place; the inside of the
boat, moreover, was too clean and dry for it to have been recently used
for fishing. The merchant, although he had not yet heard of the robbery,
strongly suspected that the carpenter had used the boat for some
improper purpose, and he was strengthened in this view by finding two
silver spoons under one of the thwarts. This discovery angered him, for
he felt he had been deceived, and putting the spoons in his pocket, he
went at once to the carpenter for an explanation. The carpenter, with
whom were his housekeeper and apprentice, seemed greatly embarrassed
when the spoons were produced, and after having been pressed by the
merchant, they confessed that they had been up to no good, but would not
say where or how they had obtained these spoons. The merchant was now
called away from home, and the affair was driven from his mind by more
serious transactions. Now that he heard of the robbery, he remembered
the suspicious conduct of the carpenter and his servants.

Evidence of this sort, coming from a witness of the highest character,
carried so much weight that the judge ordered the carpenter and his
companions to be arrested. At the same time, search was made in the
house, which resulted in the discovery of the whole of the stolen
effects. The culprits, finding it useless to deny their guilt, now made
full confession. The three of them were implicated, but it was not
settled who had originated the idea. The apprentice, having worked in
Madame Andrecht's house for another master, knew his way about it, and
had guided the thieves after they had effected their entrance. The boat
had been borrowed, in the way described, to simplify the removal of the
plunder. All three of the culprits were with the crowd assembled outside
the house when the robbery had been discovered. They heard of the
suspicions against the Blue Dragoon, and the apprentice at once visited
the alehouse, and succeeded in secreting the memorandum-book in the
drawer of the press, where it was discovered.

The foregoing evidence was sufficient to convict the carpenter and his
two accomplices, but justice was not yet satisfied of Nicholas D----'s
innocence. Two damaging facts still told against him: the half-charred
excise bill and the handkerchief bearing his initials. It was possible
that he had been an accomplice, although the carpenter and the others
would not accuse him. That other people were also concerned seemed
evident from the fact of the forged letter, whose authorship was still
undiscovered.

Further facts of a strange and interesting kind were presently
forthcoming about this letter. The schoolmaster of a neighbouring
village came with a scrap of paper on which was inscribed the name
Joseph Christian Ruhler, the name with which the forged letter had been
signed. At the schoolmaster's request the writing of this paper was
compared with that of the letter, and they were found to be identical.
Then the schoolmaster went on to say that both had been written by a
pupil of his, a deaf and dumb boy whom he had taught to write, and who
made a scanty living as an amanuensis. Some time before this, an unknown
man had called on the boy, had taken him to an inn in the village, and
there given him a letter to copy. The boy, on reading the letter--which,
as we have seen, was of a very compromising nature--demurred. But he was
pacified by the present of a gulden, and made the copy. Still, the
secrecy and peculiarity of the whole affair weighed on his mind, and he
at length confided the story to his teacher. The alleged letter from the
corporal had already got into circulation in the neighbourhood, and was
clearly the one the boy had copied. The schoolmaster went to the inn,
made inquiries about the strange man, and eventually found him to be a
baker, H----, the very man who had been so determined to enter Madame
Andrecht's house when the robbery was first announced. So far he had
been utterly unconnected in any way with the crime, though his excessive
zeal had attracted attention at the time. However, he was arrested; and
from the disclosures he made a warrant was also issued for the
apprehension of the wool-spinner, Leendert van N----, and his wife, who
had been the first to air their suspicions of the innkeeper's
complicity.

As the investigation proceeded, a curious tale was unfolded. The last
persons arrested had no share in the housebreaking, but were concerned
in another crime, which probably would never have been discovered but
for the robbery. The substance of their confessions was as follows:--

Leendert van N----, H---- the baker, and Corporal Ruhler were old
acquaintances, and had dealings together of not too reputable a kind in
connection with the victualling and clothing of the garrison. They
cordially hated and despised each other, and only kept together from
community of interests and pursuits.

The associates were playing cards one evening (June 29th) in Leendert's
house, situated in the vicinity of Madame Andrecht's, when they
quarrelled with the corporal, and the corporal retorted in offensive
terms. From words they came to blows, in which Madame van N----
assisted. In a few minutes the corporal lay pinioned on the ground,
uttering loud curses and threatening them with public exposure. The
baker whispered that they had better do the job thoroughly, and after a
few blows the corpse, drenched in blood, lay at their feet.

The terrors of conscience and the apprehensions of their crime paralysed
their thoughts during the night. The next morning they heard the
commotion caused by the news of the discovery of the robbery at Madame
Andrecht's. At once they realised their danger, and the probability of a
house-to-house search being instituted, when their horrible crime would
be discovered. Their great object, then, was to give the authorities
something to occupy their time till the body could be disposed of. It
was Madame van N---- who perfected the idea. Why should not suspicion be
laid at the door of the Blue Dragoon? His nocturnal courtship was
remembered, and corroborative evidence could be supplied by a
handkerchief that he had dropped in the house some little time before.
The baker then remembered the old excise receipt that Nicholas D---- had
once handed him to make a note on. Part of it was charred away, and the
remaining portion was carelessly dropped in the house when the baker
accompanied the police in their search. It may be remembered that the
van N----'s were most busy in the hints they gave of the innkeeper's
supposed guilt, and their machinations were unconsciously assisted by
those of the carpenter and his confederates. So the false evidence
brought by these two independent plots formed very circumstantial proof
against the innocent victim. However, the baker and the wool-spinner
only wanted to excite suspicion against Nicholas till they could
accomplish their object of hiding the body. That effected, they began to
feel remorse that an innocent person should be ruined. The thought of
the torture which awaited him struck them with horror, and they evolved
the idea of a letter from

Ruhler, incriminating himself. Thus they hoped to obtain delay for
Nicholas and safety for themselves. However, their plans were too well
thought out; their fear of detection led them to employ the strange deaf
and dumb boy to write their letter, which afterwards betrayed them.

Sentence of death was pronounced against the persons who had been
concerned in the housebreaking as well as against those who had
committed the murder, and it was carried into effect on all of them with
the exception of Madame van N----, who died in prison. The wool-spinner
alone exhibited any sign of penitence.