For more than half a century I have taken a great interest in those who, of malice aforethought, and after considerable pains, succeed in taking the lives of others. I remember as if it were to-day the excitement that arose when William Palmer was charged with the murder of John Parsons Cook. For fifty years a vivid impression of all the events and episodes connected with the remarkable trial of that remarkable man has remained with me. I was then a boy of eleven, but Palmer was well known to the boys of Rugeley, and to myself amongst them. Palmer attended church on Sundays, when racing engagements allowed, and sat in his family pew, fairly close to the schoolboys, of whom I happened to be one. He was most particular about behaviour in church—not only his own, but that of the schoolboys also. Even now I can see him coming into church with some member of his family, with firm walk and clanging heel. I can remember how he stood up to pray into his top-hat a lengthened prayer on entering his pew. I remember, too, that his clothing was always black, and that a crape mourning band was always in evidence on his hat, for funerals were numerous in the Palmer family. But we lads thought nothing of the funerals; but we knew that Palmer's eye was upon us, if we did not behave discreetly in church; we knew he had more than once pulled the ears of boys that misbehaved. We knew, too, that Palmer's mother had an easily accessible garden, in which were plenty of juicy apples and toothsome cherries.

Apart from his staid and correct manner at church, Palmer was a bluff, hearty fellow, well known and well liked in our little town, where he frequently doctored the poor for nothing; and it was always understood that Palmer's brother George, a solicitor, was also equally ready to give his services free of charge to the poor. It was only natural, then, that the Palmers were liked in our town—for it was a very small town. Grave faces, I remember, had been plentiful in Rugeley for some weeks and things had been going on that we boys did not understand. We knew the names of Palmer's horses, and felt any amount of interest in Blinkbonny and Goldfinder; but we did not understand the gloom that had settled on the town, for older people spoke with bated breath, and when boys drew near the conversation ceased or the lads were driven away. We knew the name of Palmer was whispered continuously. What did it all mean? At length mystery, reticence, and whispered suspicions were useless. Palmer had been arrested for the murder of John Parsons Cook, whose body lay in our churchyard, and whose funeral we had witnessed. Now the excitement began. Rugeley became almost the hub of the universe. Strange people arrived from everywhere, and the quiet town became a Babel.

I remember with what awe we gazed at Cook's grave after the body had been exhumed and returned to its resting-place. We knew that some part of the body had been taken away and sent to London for great men to examine. We boys even discussed the ultimate destination of the parts taken away, and wondered if they would ever get back to poor Cook. How well I remember the exciting events of that long and dramatic trial in London! Rugeley people were poor in those days, and newspapers were dear, so we borrowed where we could, and lent to others when we possessed. I read aloud the records of that trial to all sorts of poor people, so I have cause to remember it. I prosecuted Palmer, and I defended him; I was witness, and I was judge; I claimed a triumphant acquittal, and I demanded his condemnation; I cross-examined the great analyst, and even at that age began to learn something of the nature and effects of strychnine. I thrilled with it all, but I believed Palmer to be innocent, and in a measure I was proud of a townsman who could stand up bravely against all the big men in London and show no fear. Oh, but he was a brave man! He must be innocent! And when the trial was all over, and Palmer was brought to Stafford to pay the penalty of his crime, do I not remember how all the world rushed to Stafford to see him hanged? Ay, I remember how people tramped all day through Rugeley to Stafford, and how they stood all through the night in Stafford streets waiting, waiting for eight o'clock the next morning. Yes, I remember it all; and I remember, too, that the cherries in a certain garden nevermore had any attractions! But I remember, too, that Palmer died game, showing no fear, betraying no anxiety, with a good appetite to the last and a firm step to the scaffold.

Surely Palmer was innocent, and was supported by the knowledge of his innocence. Murderers had fearsome consciences; they were haunted by a sense of their guilt, and by the eyes or the spirits of their victims.

So I felt and so I reasoned about murderers when I was a boy. I have since those days had many opportunities of correcting my judgment, and now I no longer believe that a bold, cool, collected behaviour, together with the possession of a good appetite, is synonymous with innocence. For I have seen enough to justify me in saying that a calm and brave bearing is more likely to be indicative of guilt than of innocence. But the public and certain portions of the press still translate callous behaviour into a proof of innocence, and sometimes convert prisoners into heroes.

No greater mistake could be made, for a prisoner's behaviour has nothing do with to his guilt or innocence. On the whole, fear or distress are far more likely to indicate innocence than they are to denote guilt. This I believe to hold good of all prisoners, not only of those charged with the capital offence. I have failed to observe in prisoners who were undoubtedly guilty the furtive look that is supposed to be peculiar to guilt. I have watched closely and have spoken confidentially to many hundreds, but their eyes met mine as naturally as those of a child. I have been compelled to the conclusion that not only is a bold bearing consistent with the deepest guilt, but also that a natural bearing and a childlike trustfulness are by no means to be taken as signs of innocence. Of the behaviour of innocent people when charged with crime, fortunately, we do not get many opportunities of observation; still, I have seen some, and can bear testimony that they were a great deal more confused, excited, and unreliable than prisoners who were undeniably guilty. Such prisoners often contradict themselves, and sometimes depart from the truth when attempting to defend themselves. It is palpable to everyone that they feel their position, and fear the consequences. I have seen such astounding coolness and presence of mind, coupled with apparent candour and sincerity, among guilty prisoners that when I know of a prisoner exhibiting these qualities I almost instinctively suspect him. An innocent man, in his anxiety, may prevaricate through fear and confusion; but the veritably guilty man is careful in these matters, though he may be sometimes a little too clever.

The psychology of prisoners has, then, for years been a favourite study with me, and a very interesting study I have found it. In my endeavours to discover the state of mind that existed and caused certain prisoners to commit serious crimes, I have sometimes discovered, almost hidden in the dark recesses of the mind, some little shadow of some small thing that to me seemed quite absurd, but which to the prisoner loomed so large, so real, and so important, that he regarded it as a sufficient justification for his deed. To myself the crime and the something in the prisoner's mind appeared to have no possible connection, yet unmistakably, if the prisoners were to be believed, they were cause and effect. Now, from this kind of mania—for such it undoubtedly is—small and ridiculous as it seems—and I have met it too often not to be certain as to its existence—a double question is presented: What is the cause of that little something in the prisoner's mind? and why has it caused the prisoner to commit a certain action? I have never been able to get any light upon these questions, but have had to content myself with the knowledge that the mental equipment of that class of criminals is altogether different to that of ordinary individuals. I am not here speaking of a defined mania that dominates the life, stirs the passions, and leads directly to the perpetration of a crime—cause and effect in such a case are obvious, though, of course, the cause of the cause is still obscure—but I am speaking of silly little somethings that float about in certain minds, that refuse to be ejected, that entail much misery and suffering, and finally crime. Possibly this state of mind may be the outcome of indigestion, even as an extra severe sentence upon a prisoner may be the outcome of indigestion in a judge: for it is quite possible to suppose a case in which judge and prisoner suffered from a like cause; but the one has committed a crime because of it, and the other inflicts unmerited punishment because of it. Two things are very clear to me: first, that our judges and magistrates ought to be in the very best of health when performing their duties; secondly, that pathological causes enter very largely into the perpetration of crime. Ill-health may make a judge irritable and severe, and so distort his judgment, and excuses are made for him; for it is whispered he is a martyr to gout, indigestion, or some equally trying malady. If so, he certainly ought not to be a judge, for health and temper are absolutely necessary for one who has to administer justice and act as the arbiter of other people's fate. But this excuse is not made for prisoners. Yet in hundreds of cases it might honestly be made; for while they may not have been influenced by gout or indigestion, they have been influenced by pathological causes, and the two things are equal.

I am persuaded, after many years' close observation and many years' friendship with criminals, that disease, mental or physical, is a tremendous factor in the causation of crime. The "criminal class" is often spoken of, and it might be supposed that there is a distinct class of people to whom the appellation applies. My experience teaches me that there is no "criminal class," but there are plenty of criminals. The low forehead and the square jaw, the scowling eye and the stubbly beard, do not denote criminality; the receding forehead, the weak eye, and the almost absence of chin, do not indicate criminal instincts. Nothing of the sort. All these things are consistent with decent living, a fair amount of intelligence, and some moral purpose. On the other hand, a well-built body, a well-shaped head, a handsome face, a clean skin, and a bright eye are consistent with the basest criminality. Some of the worst criminals I have met—real and dangerous criminals—were handsome as Apollo. But there does exist a class—and, unfortunately, a very large class—who have very limited intelligence, who appear to be retrogressing physically, mentally, and morally, of whom a large proportion commit various kinds of offences—not from criminal instincts, but from stunted or undeveloped intelligence and lack of reasoning power.

But I am digressing, for it is not my purpose in this chapter to speak of criminals in general, but rather of those whom I have personally met charged with murder, and who were convicted, some paying the full penalty. These I want to consider more fully. From this list I must eliminate man-slayers who had killed in the heat of passion or in a drunken quarrel, for they were not murderers at heart. Their mental condition was understandable, and their bearing while undergoing trial is beside the question. Neither do I wish to include married or single women who had killed their offspring at childbirth or soon after, for they are outside my consideration. But I want to speak plainly about those who had committed prearranged murders, and carried them out with considerable skill.

In refreshing my memory about these, I find that they held several characteristics in common:

1. Not one of them exhibited any sense of shame, no matter how disgraceful the attendant circumstances.

2. Not one of them exhibited any nervousness or fear of the consequences.

3. Those who admitted their guilt justified their actions, and appeared to believe that they had done the right thing.

4. Those who denied their guilt, denied it with cool and positive assurance, and denied it to the last with almost contempt, as if the charge was more an insult than anything serious.

5. None of them betrayed the slightest sorrow.

6. Every one of them appeared of sound mind so far as reasoning powers were concerned, for they were quite lucid, and remarkably quick to see a point in their favour.

7. None of them were fully able to realize the position in which they stood, as ordinary people must have realized it.

Of course, everyone will admit that the man or woman who can plan and carry out a murder, whether that murder is likely to be detected or not, is not, and cannot be, a normal person; but what we require to know is where they depart from the normal, and how and why they depart from the normal.

I would like to say that the particulars just given are the results not only of my observation of prisoners when in the dock, but also of many personal and private conversations with them. In a word, I do not consider that any of these prisoners were thoroughly sane. It may be said—it is often said—that in human nature "we find what we look for," and there is truth in the saying; but when trying to understand these people, I had not the slightest idea of what I was seeking. I knew there must be some cause that led to the crime, something out of the ordinary in their minds, but what it was and how to find it was more than I could tell. So I have watched, have talked and listened. For these prisoners were always ready to talk: there was no secrecy with them, excepting with regard to the crime; otherwise they were talkative enough. It takes some time and patience to discover whether or not in people there is a suspicion of brain trouble. They appear so natural that several lengthened conversations may be required before anything at all is revealed. I trust that it will not be thought that I am betraying confidences that poor wretches have given to me, for no prisoner, guilty or innocent, ever confided in me without such confidences being considered sacred; but as their cases are not of recent date, no harm can be done, and possibly good may ensue, if I give some particulars that I gained regarding their mental peculiarities. Being anxious to ascertain how far my experience was confirmed by the experience of others, quite recently I put a question to the chaplain of one of our largest prisons, and whose experience was much greater than my own in this particular direction. I asked him whether he had ever known anyone who was about to suffer the death penalty for a premeditated and cleverly contrived murder exhibit any sense of remorse, sorrow, or fear. His answer was exactly what I expected—"that he had performed his last sad offices for a considerable number of such prisoners, and that he had discovered neither fear nor remorse in any of them; with one exception, they all denied their guilt." I want it to be perfectly clear that I am speaking now about murderers who committed premeditated crimes that had been cleverly carried out, impromptu murders not being considered.

I now propose to give a sufficient number of examples to prove my point. In a poor street within two hundred yards of my own door I had frequently seen a beautiful boy of about four years old. His appearance, his clothing, his cleanliness, and even his speech, told unmistakably that he was not belonging to the poor. I knew the old people that he lived with, and felt quite sure that it was not owing to their exertions that he was so beautifully dressed and kept so spotlessly clean, for they were old, feeble, and very poor. But the old people had a daughter living with them, and it was the daughter who had charge of the child, for the little fellow was a "nurse-child." Good payment must have been given for the care of the child, for it was the only source of income for the household. The foster-mother was devoted to the boy, and he reflected every credit upon her love and care. Many times when I have met them I have spoken a cheery word to the little fellow, never dreaming of the coming tragedy, or that I should meet his real mother and discuss his death with her. The dead body of a boy between four and five years of age had been discovered in the women's lavatory of a North London railway-station. Without doubt the child had been ruthlessly murdered. His head had been smashed; his face was crushed beyond recognition. A calcined brick lay close by the body, and had evidently been used for perpetrating the deed. No other trace of the murder was forthcoming, and the body was taken to the nearest mortuary. Meanwhile the foster-mother and her aged parents were mourning the loss of the bonny boy, for the boy's mother had taken him from them that he might begin his education in a boarding-school for young children at Brighton. They had learned to love the child, and now he was gone. The old people missed him sadly, and the nurse-mother wept for him. The house seemed so dull without him. The murder occurred on a Saturday. On one of the early days of the ensuing week a neighbour chanced to tell the nurse-mother that she had read in a Sunday paper about the discovery of a child's mangled body at a North London railway-station, and also that the body remained unidentified at the mortuary. Although the nurse had not the slightest suspicion—for on the Saturday morning she had accompanied the boy and his mother to London Bridge, where tickets had been taken for Brighton, and the nurse had seen them safely on the correct platform and the train waiting—yet the loss of her nurse-child had so affected her that she wept as her neighbour told her of the newspaper account, and they went together to the mortuary, which was some miles away, to see the "other little dear." It was some years before the nurse recovered from the shock she sustained on her visit to the mortuary, for the mangled and disfigured body was that of her late charge—her "dear Manfred." I question whether even now she has recovered, for several times I know that she has been ill, and sometimes when I have been sent for, she seemed likely to lose her reason, the one and only thing that occupied her mind being the tragic discovery of her dear boy's maimed body. But the child's mother undoubtedly went to Brighton on that particular Saturday afternoon. She intended to go to Brighton, not for the purpose of placing her child in a school, but for another purpose by no means so praiseworthy, yet for a purpose that was esteemed by her a sufficient justification for the murder of the child. She had lured a young man into a promise to spend the week-end with her at Brighton, and some reason had to be found and given for her visit. Placing the child in a suitable school seemed a sufficient reason, so the nurse was instructed to get the boy's clothing ready and accompany her to London Bridge. This was accordingly done, and the nurse returned home, fully believing that the boy and his mother were on the way to Brighton. But the mother did not go to Brighton by that train. She allowed it to go without her, and when the nurse was safely away she left the platform, saying that she had missed it, but would return and go by a later train. She then took a bus for Broad Street Station, there taking a return ticket for Dalston, where she alighted. The lavatory in question was on the platform, consequently she did not pass the ticket-barrier. After accomplishing her object with the brick I have referred to, and which she had carried in her reticule all day for the purpose—for she had taken it from the garden of the house where she lived—she returned to Broad Street, giving her correct ticket up, and then on to London Bridge and Brighton early enough to meet the young man, who was about half her own age, and who spent the week-end with her.

I have given briefly the particulars of this gruesome affair because they lead up to the mental conditions of the murderess. It will be noticed that the murder was skilfully contrived beforehand; that the object to be gained was indulgence with a young man but little more than half her age; that within a few hours of killing her own boy she smilingly met the young man as if nothing had happened. All these things are extraordinary, but when to these some particulars regarding the murderess are added, the character of the whole affair becomes more extraordinary still. She was a governess, clever and exceedingly well educated, with scientific accomplishments. She was about thirty-six years of age, by no means soft or voluptuous in appearance, but with a hard, strong cast of face. She was doing well in a pecuniary sense, and her friends were also in good circumstances.

In considering the case, the first thing that strikes me is that when a woman of her character, standing and appearance gives birth to an illegitimate child, at an age when girlhood has long passed, there is an absolute departure from the normal, there is something wrong. I need not give any details of her trial, only to say the facts I have given were fully proved, and to add that she was found guilty, sentenced, and hanged.

It is of her bearing and demeanour that I wish to speak. Of course, she protested her innocence; any other person might be guilty, but it was absurd to hint that she was guilty. Yet she betrayed no indignation. To her it was Euclid over again, with quod erat faciendum, as the result of the problem. She was cool, alert, and fearless; she showed no emotion, no anxiety, no feeling. The killing of a sheep could not have been a matter of less importance to her than was the murder of her own child. Such was her demeanour at the inquest and at the police-court proceedings, and this attitude she maintained to the end.

In her private conversation with me she was clear, animated, and apparently calm and frank. I never saw the least symptoms of nervousness, and her eyes met mine as naturally and unconcernedly as if the charge she had to meet had not the remotest connection with herself. Her last words to me were: "When I am discharged, I shall invite myself to tea with Mrs. Holmes and yourself, for I am supported by the thought that you firmly believe in my innocence." I had never told her this, for I had not discussed her guilt or innocence. She had talked to me, and I had listened, putting a question occasionally to her. I could believe no other than that she was verily guilty, but I did not tell her so—I had no right to tell her so—but I listened and waited for an admission that would throw some little light upon the state of her mind, and give me a faint idea of the cause that led her to plan and execute the terrible deed. This she did, and I am persuaded that she took away the boy to furnish her with some excuse for spending the week-end at Brighton. I leave it to others to decide upon her sanity, though personally I am charitable enough to think she was insane. It is certain that she was animated with fierce passion; it is also certain that in other respects she was cold as an iceberg. For the death of her beautiful boy, whether she was guilty or innocent of it, never troubled her for a moment. Does a lust for blood accompany an excess of the other passion in a woman of her temperament and characteristics? This I do not know, but I have no doubt that wiser people do know. At any rate, with hands that had cruelly battered the life out of her own child, and while the blood of that child was still hot upon them, she welcomed her male friend. I profess that I find some comfort in the belief that she was insane. Had her insanity been just a little more obvious, she might have escaped the death penalty and ended her days in a criminal lunatic asylum.

But I do not think the question of her sanity was ever raised. He would have been a bold man that raised it, in the face of her accomplishments and self-control. Some day we shall, perhaps, apply different methods to test sanity than those now employed, and we shall look for other symptoms in diagnosis than those we look for now. The most dangerous madness is not that which is patent to everybody—the wild or vacant eyes, the inconsequent or violent speech, the manifest delusions, and the inability to conduct one's own affairs. These are simple enough; but the possessors of these characteristics are often harmless to the community. But when the madness is half madness, and is covered with a show of reason, it is then that danger is to be feared.

In the case I am now about to give insanity was just a little more apparent, though I do not think it was more real. But its manifestation was of sufficient magnitude to prevent capital punishment.

A young woman whose character was beyond reproach, and whose ability and business aptitude gave the greatest pleasure to her employer and his wife, was engaged as the manageress of a department in a drapery and millinery shop in North London. She had been in the situation for some months, and perfect confidence existed between the different parties. One hot Sunday afternoon she suddenly awoke from an afternoon nap with the conviction that she had been criminally assaulted by her employer. The fact that she was in her own room with the door fastened did not weigh with her at all. She declared that her employer was the guilty person. The fact that he and his wife spent the afternoon out of doors was nothing to her. Possessed with this extraordinary idea, she left London at once for a town on the South Coast, where her brother lived. Her brother appears to have accepted her statement without question or demur, and to him the delusion became as real as to his sister. He armed her with an exquisitely made and very formidable dagger, and provided himself with an equally dangerous pistol and cartridges. Thus armed, they came to London—he to take vengeance upon the man who had dishonoured his sister, she to point out the man, and to be ready with the dagger if the pistol failed to take effect. The brother did not fail, for he shot the man dead. Now that vengeance was satisfied, the couple were again harmless, for neither brother nor sister attempted to do any more injury. They were arrested, and gave up their arms willingly enough. They declared that they had done the deed, and that they intended to kill the man; that they procured the weapons and came to London for the express purpose. They claimed to be perfectly justified in their joint action. This attitude they maintained before the court, for when asked if they wished to put any questions to the witnesses, "Oh no!" was the reply. "Of what use would they be? We did it; we are glad that we did it. The consequences do not matter." There was quite a little dispute between the sister and brother. He declared that as he killed the man he alone was entitled to the glory and the punishment; but the sister declared that it was done at her request, and also that she was prepared to kill if her brother had failed. Both were found guilty, and both were committed to a criminal lunatic asylum. Yet they had every appearance of being thoroughly sane; their manner, their speech, their reasoning powers, and everything appertaining to them, savoured of clear reason, their delusion alone excepted. If that delusion had not been so manifest, undoubtedly they would have been hanged. There seems to me to be no point from which a line can be drawn to divide insanity from sanity. At present we have but clumsy, uncertain, and very speculative methods of deciding upon a prisoner's sanity—methods that must often result in the punishment, if not the death, of the prisoners who suffer from some kind of mental disease. I am inclined to believe that the more all traces of madness are hidden by clever murderers, the stronger is the probability of that madness existing, for the very essence of cunning is employed in hiding it. They will cheerfully contemplate the executioner's rope rather than be considered mad. The brother and sister to whom I have referred would have cheerfully accepted the death penalty in preference to committal to a lunatic asylum. In one of my conversations with the brother, I suddenly asked him: "Have any of your relations been detained in lunatic asylums?" He was quite ready for me, and he replied: "I am as sane as you are; and if you are ever placed in a similar situation to mine, I hope you will prove as sane as I have."

The more I think over the two cases—one woman found sane and hanged, the other declared insane and sent to a lunatic asylum—the more I am convinced that equal justice has not been done. Probably the madness in both women proceeded from the same cause, and it is clear that neither of them had the slightest compunction about shedding blood.

I will deal briefly with my next case, and of a truth there is not much to be said. He was a clerk about twenty-six years of age. He had married a decent young woman, for whom he had made no provision other than a loaded pistol. He had no home and no money, excepting a few pounds that he had embezzled, and with this he had paid the marriage expenses. With his last few shillings he hired a cab; drove, accompanied by his wife, from place to place, in pretence of finding a home for her; and, finally, while still in the cab, he did the deed for which he had prepared—he shot her. He made no attempt to escape; he offered no reason for his deed; he was quite satisfied with his action; and when before the court he was absolutely unconcerned. I had several conversations with him, and as he had publicly owned to the deed, there was no harm in my assumption of his guilt. I said to him: "Tell me why you did this cruel deed?" He said: "I don't consider it a cruel deed. What else could I do? You would have done the same." Argument, of course, was out of the question, but I did venture to express the hope that I might not have done what he had done, when he again replied: "You think so now; but if you had to do it, you would do it!" And this frame of mind he maintained to the end—for he was hanged.

I do not say that he ought not to have been hanged, for it is difficult to point out in what other way he could have been dealt with; but so long as insanity is considered a sufficient reason for preventing the death penalty, I do say that every possible means should be taken to test a prisoner's sanity before a final decision is arrived at; and, further, that the appearance of positive sanity is under such circumstances an indication of insanity. Every criminal, in addition to murderers, ought to be subjected to a careful and prolonged scrutiny and mental examination by experts. The cost would not be great, and I am fully sure the results would compensate if the expense was great. Prisons ought to become psychological observatories, and be made to furnish us with a vast amount of useful information. There are so many things we ought to know, and might know if we would only take pains to know. It might be that the information obtained would make us sad and excite our fear; it might be that our pity would be deeply stirred, and that we should have a whole army of human beings upon our hands, for whom we might feel hopeless and helpless. But we have these even now, and for them imprisonment or hanging is a ready and simple plan that suffices us! But ought they to suffice in these enlightened days? I think not. At any rate, we ought to gather knowledge. With knowledge will come power, and with power better methods of dealing with erring or afflicted humanity. For the days will surely come when the hangman's rope will be seldom in requisition; when all the unhealthy and demoralizing publicity attaching to a murder trial will be a thing of the past; when criminals will not be made into public heroes, because of the speculative and perhaps equal chances of life or death; when morbid and widespread sentiment will not be created by public appeals to the Home Secretary; and, perhaps best of all, when diseased minds will be no longer influenced by the unhealthy publicity of the details pertaining to a death sentence to commit the other crimes for which no motives have been apparent.

Since writing the above chapter, the following appeared in the daily papers of August 5, 1908:

"Thomas Siddle, a bricklayer, was yesterday executed at Hull for the murder of his wife in June last. The crime was a particularly callous one. Siddle was to have gone to prison for not paying his wife's maintenance under a separation order. On the day, however, he visited her, and after some conversation savagely attacked her with a razor. Before his execution the prisoner ate a hearty breakfast, and smiled at the warders as he walked firmly to the scaffold."