Charles Kingston

According to his own description of himself, James Greenacre was a very respectable grocer, a lenient creditor, and one of the most popular residents in the parish of Camberwell; and to prove the latter statement he pointed to the fact that he had been elected one of the overseers of the parish by a substantial majority.

But the plain truth is that, during the greater part of the fifty-two years which comprised his span of life, Greenacre was a hypocritical scoundrel who preached virtue and practised vice and whose egregious vanity found an outlet in seconding the notoriety-seeking eccentricities of politicians of the Daniel Whittle Harvey type. Greenacre presided at Harvey's meetings when the latter was Radical candidate for Southwark, and there is a certain grim humour in the fact that three years after Greenacre was executed for murder his political confrÈre was appointed commissioner of the metropolitan police. Greenacre was prospering when an offence against the inland revenue entailed unpremeditated emigration to America, and after a brief sojourn in New York and Boston he returned to London in 1835 and began the manufacture of "an infallible remedy for throat and chest disorders." He was struggling to make this venture pay when he met Hannah Browne.

Greenacre had regained his reputation for solvency when he astonished his numerous friends by hinting that he would not mind undergoing the ordeal of matrimony if a woman with plenty of money could be found for him. He said that, as he was a rich man, it would be only fair if the other party to the contract brought a fair fortune into the common pool. In fact, with him marriage was a business deal and nothing else, and he made no secret of his opinion.

James Greenacre.Sarah Gale & Child.

There were plenty of girls and matrons in Camberwell who would not have objected to becoming Mrs. James Greenacre, but they all lacked the necessary qualification for the partner of the prosperous quack and politician, and their dreams of wealth soon faded. Greenacre, however, kept a sharp lookout, and one evening he casually made the acquaintance of a widow named Hannah Browne. She was between thirty-five and forty and ever since childhood had toiled laboriously. Even a short spell of married life had brought her no relief, for the late Mr. Browne had had an incurable objection to work, and his unfortunate wife had been the breadwinner for both of them. But Mrs. Browne was apparently a cheerful and free-from-care person when she was introduced to the avaricious rascal. If she was not exactly a beauty, she had features which were pleasing, and she possessed sufficient womanly tact to make the most of Greenacre's weak points. She flattered him as much as she could; dwelt on his popularity and his fearlessness as a politician—he was a stentor of the street-corner—and, doubtless, predicted that one day he would be a Member of Parliament. He swallowed the flattery, large as the doses were; but, while he liked Mrs. Browne for the sensible woman that she was, he did not forget the qualification he demanded from the person who aspired to become his wife. He had been particularly touched, however, by her references to his fame as a politician, for Greenacre was a self-styled champion of the people, and in Camberwell his voice was often raised in denunciation of those eminent statesmen with whose views he did not agree. It was a time of general unrest in home affairs, and four years previously the great Reform Bill of 1832 had started the movement which eventually was to give the electors the complete control of Parliament.

Mrs. Browne resolved to marry the grocer and share his savings, and to impress Greenacre she invented a story of house property which she, a helpless widow, found difficult to manage. She told him she had been left some houses by Mr. Browne and that these with her savings made her fairly well off. Greenacre succumbed to the temptation; proposed and was accepted.

It was now late autumn, Christmas was approaching, and Hannah Browne complained of feeling lonely. Her only relative, a brother, who lived near Tottenham Court Road, had his own interests, and she was without a real friend. The widow's object was to get the marriage ceremony over as quickly as possible, for every day's delay increased the danger of Greenacre's discovery of her lies. She was confident that once she was his wife she would be all right. He might be angry; perhaps threaten her; but his standing in Camberwell would compel him to accept her as his wife and give her the shelter of his house, and she and Time would do the rest. Anyhow, the risk was small compared with the benefits to be gained by a successful issue to her plot. She had had enough of hard work, poverty and loneliness. So all through the courtship she lied and lied, and the mercenary rogue believed her because he wanted those houses and meant to have them at any price.

Urged by him Hannah Browne named a day for the wedding—the last Wednesday of the year, 1836—and to celebrate her decision Greenacre invited her to dine with him on Christmas Eve at his own house. He promised her that his housekeeper, Sarah Gale, would prepare a meal which would do credit to the occasion, and Hannah gladly accepted, delighted as she was at the success of her scheme to secure a well-to-do husband.

What would her brother and his family say now? She glowed with gratification when she pictured their amazement when she told them that she was the wife of a prosperous trader and property-owner! The years of humiliation would be wiped out by her second marriage. Her first had been a failure, but the second would more than compensate for it.

In the early part of the day before Christmas she met several acquaintances, in whom she confided her secret, bubbling over with pride as she told it. They congratulated her and passed on, probably not giving the subject another thought. Hannah Browne had always been ambitious, and her tale of a rich husband was received with disbelief. Nevertheless, those casual meetings on Christmas Eve proved of more than ordinary interest some three months later. She had already intimated to her brother that James Greenacre was to be her husband, and the grocer had met his future brother-in-law once. Greenacre, however, was in a far better position than Gay, and did not trouble to cultivate his acquaintance. On his part, Gay was only too pleased to learn that some one was willing to take his sister off his hands, and he felt indebted to Greenacre and did not resent his indifference to him after their first meeting.

But something very important happened between the fixing of the date of the ceremony and the dinner at Carpenters Buildings, Camberwell, and that was the discovery by Greenacre that Hannah Browne was actually penniless. It came to him with all the force of a knock-down blow, and he perspired as he thought how near he had been to entering into a contract to provide another man's daughter with board and lodging for life. He trembled as he estimated how much that would have cost him; but when his surprise and nervousness went a fierce hatred of the deceiver took possession of his small and mean soul.

Hannah Browne had lied to him. She was penniless; indeed, she had been compelled to borrow small sums of money from casual acquaintances on the security of her forthcoming marriage to him. The respectable grocer and popular overseer went black with rage. His housekeeper, who had contemplated the marriage with dismay because it was certain that it would lead to the disinheritance of her child, of whom her employer was the father, fed his anger with the fuel of innuendo and jeers. She blackened Hannah's character, declared that the widow would make him the laughing-stock of Camberwell, and, if he declined to marry her, would most likely either try blackmail or sue him for damages.

The ambitious street-corner politician winced at the prospect of the public ridicule her disclosures would earn for him; the greedy grocer shrank from having to pay out real red gold for breach of promise.

"She's coming to dinner to-night," whispered Sarah Gale, the tight mouth and the small glittering eyes telling their own story of insensate hatred of the woman who had been selected to supplant her.

Greenacre looked into the face of his temptress, and instantly realized that if he wanted an accomplice in any crime here was one whom he could trust, even with his life.

"I don't want to see her," he said, turning away from the woman. "When she calls send her away. She'll guess by that that I've found everything out."

"She will not go away quietly," said Sarah Gale. "And if I give her a message like that she'll force her way in. What'll the neighbours say if they find a woman screaming outside your house on Christmas Eve? Better let her in. You can give her a good talking to. She deserves something for them lies she's been telling you." He would have laughed to scorn the suggestion that he was a criminal, if the accusation had been made at that moment. Perhaps, he had been guilty in the past of giving short weight to his customers, and now and then in his anxiety to strike a bargain he may not have dealt fairly with his friends, but these were venial sins, and he believed himself to be a thoroughly respectable citizen; yet greed of gold was going to turn him into a calculating and cold-blooded criminal that very night.

When Hannah Browne arrived wearing her best clothes she was admitted by Sarah Gale, who must have smiled grimly when she saw the visitor's pleased expression.

The table was already prepared, and nothing remained but to serve up the banquet. But Greenacre, who had intended not to speak until after dinner, was unable to restrain himself, and Hannah had not been two minutes in the room when he burst into a torrent of angry words.

The widow started to her feet, listened for a few moments in silence, and then laughed mockingly. Now that the truth was known she only jeered at him, boasting of her success in having thrown dust in his eyes for so long. She answered him with threat for threat, and swore that she would make him keep his promise to marry her. Greenacre was provoked to madness, and, losing control of himself, he picked up a rolling-pin, and in a fury struck her with it. As she dropped to the floor Sarah Gale stole into the room on tiptoe, and, coming to the murderer's side, stood looking down at the corpse, elated by the knowledge that Greenacre would never be able to get rid of her now; in fact would be in her power all his life. He could not speak or move. The blood on the floor hypnotized him. He was a murderer, and if he were caught he would be hanged by the neck until he was dead. He shuddered convulsively at the thought.

The woman touched him on the shoulder.

"Why should anyone know?" she said, in a whisper that sounded like a croak. "Let us get rid of the body. Hannah had no real friends. There'll be no one to make awkward inquiries."

Her voice roused him and he pulled himself together. The fear of the hangman was the greatest terror of all, and now dread of the consequences transformed him into a cunning, calculating villain.

With the help of Sarah Gale he divided the body into three parts—head, trunk and legs. Each meant a separate journey to a different part of London, for he believed that if he hid the remains in three places far apart from each other discovery and identification would be impossible. One or possibly two of the ghastly parcels might be unearthed, but it was out of the question that all three would be found and put together. For several hours the guilty couple laboured to remove all traces of the crime, and Christmas Day dawned with the parcels ready for disposal.

Wrapping the head in a silk handkerchief, he journeyed by omnibus into the city; from there he went to Stepney, and, reaching the Regent's Canal, he took a walk along the bank until he came to a more than usually deserted spot. Here he flung the head into the water, taking care to retain the silk handkerchief, for even in the hour of danger and stress he could remember that it had cost him several shillings.

No murderer ever spent a more ghastly Christmas than James Greenacre did, but he was by now quite callous. The second journey enabled him to dispose of the legs by flinging them into a ditch in Coldharbour Lane, not very far from his house. The disposal of the trunk, however, was the most difficult of all. It made a very heavy parcel, and Greenacre, with extraordinary daring, did not pack it in a box and attempt to get rid of it that way. He wrapped it up in cloth and paper, and, carrying it himself into the street, found a passing carter, who gave him a lift until he was a couple of miles from Camberwell. Then the murderer took a cab, and, after two or three incidents which would have unnerved most men, he reached a lonely spot in Kilburn which he considered would make an ideal hiding-place.

The threefold task completed he returned home quite satisfied with himself. If the worst happened and the three parcels were found, the finder of the trunk at Kilburn would never dream of inquiring at Stepney for the head, or at Camberwell for the legs. He argued that the public would make three mysteries out of the three parts and never think of associating all with one crime.

Greenacre began the new year with a feeling of relief and security. His mistress, Sarah Gale, instead of being able to hold a threat over him, found herself compelled to keep silent for her own sake as well as his. She was his accomplice, and, therefore, equally guilty in the eyes of the law. Thus she had the best of reasons for forgetting the Christmas Eve tragedy, and the respectable grocer, quite unperturbed, went to reside in another London suburb and continued to deal out his "amalgamated candy" to the credulous and eloquently describe its healing qualities.

Despite his first mistake, however, Greenacre had not abandoned the idea of marriage, and he speculated in an advertisement in the "Times," taking precautions to disguise his real intentions. He advertised to the effect that he required a partner with at least three hundred pounds to help him to place on the market a new washing-machine, of which he was the sole inventor. Of course it was a lie. Greenacre wished to get into correspondence with a woman of means, and, in his opinion, this was the surest way, for any female who answered his advertisement would possess at least three hundred pounds, and the chances were that the majority of correspondents would make a more detailed reference to the means they possessed. A lady with considerable savings did reply to the advertisement, and Greenacre promptly changed his letters from business communications into ardent protestations of respect and admiration. Encouraged by the lady's failure to resent the freedom of his language, he boldly asked her to marry him, but, fortunately for herself, she promptly rejected his offer.

But, meanwhile, something had occurred elsewhere which was to have a fatal result for the murderer. On December 28th, 1836, the trunk of Hannah Browne's body had been found at Kilburn. There was nothing to identify it, and it was ordered to be preserved for a certain time in case anyone with a missing friend or relation should come forward and recognize it. The only clue—and that a very tiny one—was that the remains were wrapped in a blue cotton frock, which had evidently been worn by a child.

Ten days afterwards a lock-keeper on the Regent's Canal pulled the head of a woman out of the water. A preliminary examination showed that it bore bruises which must have been inflicted before death. The most important discovery, however, was that the head had been roughly sawn from the body. Now, the trunk found at Kilburn bore similar traces of sawing, and that drew the attention of the Stepney police to the coincidence. They took the head to Kilburn, and there it was seen that it fitted the trunk exactly. It was now possible to have the body identified, but, although scores of persons came and viewed the legless corpse, it remained unnamed.

Two months were to pass before the body was to be completed. A basket-maker was cutting osiers in Coldharbour Lane when he saw a parcel floating in the ditch at his feet. He recovered it and examined the contents—two legs. These he conveyed to the police, who immediately placed them in the mortuary where the rest of Mrs. Browne's remains were. In this way Greenacre's plans were confounded. He had staked everything against the possibility of the three parts ever finding their way into the same room, but within three months of the crime the complete body lay awaiting identification.

The police were not a highly-organized force in the year that witnessed the death of William IV and the accession of Queen Victoria. Out-of-date methods prevailed, and the most celebrated of the detectives were now old men, the remnants of a system that was soon to be swept away. But the treble discovery aroused the authorities. The mangled remains of the poor woman were proof positive that there was a dangerous beast at large in London, and the police concentrated their efforts on the task of finding someone who could identify the corpse, certain that once the woman's name was known the arrest of her murderer would follow speedily.

However, the days went, and failure seemed certain when Gay, Hannah Browne's brother, called to view the body. He had not seen his sister for over three months, and he was getting anxious about her. At first sight of the corpse he declared that it was his sister's and that when he had last seen her she was going to dine with James Greenacre on Christmas Eve.

"Did she keep that appointment?" asked the officer in charge of the case.

"No, she didn't," answered Gay. "At least, Mr. Greenacre came to me late on Christmas Eve and said that Hannah had not turned up. He explained that she probably had been afraid to call and dine with him because he had found her out in some lies."

"Then this Mr. Greenacre will be unable to help us to trace her movements last Christmas Eve?" said the detective.

"I suppose so," said the brother of the murdered woman. "He and Hannah quarrelled. He thought she had a lot of money, and when he learnt that she was penniless he told her he'd never see her again."

Gay's conduct hitherto had not been creditable. He had accepted with complacence Greenacre's account of his quarrel with his sister and had not troubled to confirm it by a little independent investigation, and his feeble excuse was that he was afraid that if he took too much interest in Hannah she would insist on his keeping her, and, as he found it difficult to provide for his own and his family's wants, he did not wish to be saddled with additional expense.

The detectives now turned their attention to James Greenacre, and several interesting facts instantly came to light. The people next door said that they had been disturbed on Christmas Eve by the sound of a scuffle in Greenacre's house, and the latter's unexpected removal had caused some talk. Then the tenants who had taken his old house had commented on the smell of brimstone when first looking over it. In their opinion it had been thoroughly fumigated, and this was confirmed by a woman who had seen Mrs. Gale giving the house a most drastic cleaning a few days after Christmas, an unusual devotion to work which had excited remarks.

There was no hurry on the part of the detectives to arrest Greenacre. They believed that he did not know that suspicion had fastened on him. His demeanour was one of unruffled confidence, and the semi-public life he led favoured those whose duty it was to shadow him and rendered it easy for them to carry out their instructions. But Greenacre was fully aware of their designs on his liberty, and with considerable cleverness he nearly succeeded in outwitting them, for the unruffled grocer by day spent his nights preparing for flight, and he was arrested only a few hours before he was on the point of leaving England for America. He had booked his passage, and already some of his luggage was on board the ship, but it was quickly recovered by the police, and a thorough examination was made of his property.

The investigation produced a plentiful crop of clues. Several incriminating articles were found, the principal one being the missing part of the blue cotton frock which had been used to cover the trunk of Hannah Browne's body. In addition to this and other unmistakable evidence, his sudden resolve to leave the country told against him. He was not the man to realize property at a heavy loss and decamp to America without a very strong reason. It was proved that when he had heard of the identification of the body of his victim he had hastily sold his property and his business, binding the purchasers to secrecy so that he might get away unobserved.

Greenacre did not waste time in denying that he was with Hannah Browne on the night she died. He knew that the evidence against him was very strong, and he thought it wiser to concoct a story of an accidental death, due to horseplay—an explanation, which was, of course, instantly rejected. Then he offered another version, which made the woman's death the result of an accidental blow by himself which was never meant to be fatal. This admission gradually led up to the truth, and then the whole story, as told here, was disclosed.

The most remarkable feature of Greenacre's conduct after his arrest was his concern for the woman who had been his mistress as well as his housekeeper. She was the mother of his four-year-old son, but, hitherto, Greenacre had treated neither with especial kindness, and it was her arrest which developed his latent love for her. When he was informed that she, too, had been taken into custody and would be placed in the dock with him to answer the capital charge, he swore that she was entirely innocent. When he was disbelieved he raved and carried on like a madman, expressing his willingness to take all the blame for the crime if the woman was set free; but the authorities were adamant. On no consideration would they agree to release Sarah Gale; the woman was held a prisoner; and when she and Greenacre met again they stood side by side in the dock.

The trial was one-sided, Greenacre's statement concerning the death of Hannah Browne constituting, in reality, a confession. The defence, such as it was, struggled feebly to win the sympathies of the jury. The male prisoner's alleged respectability was dwelt upon by his counsel, who endeavoured to prove that a man of his character and disposition could not have been guilty of such a horrible crime. As Greenacre, however, had admitted that he had dissected and disposed of the body this plea was rejected, for only the most hardened of criminals could have cut a human body up and carted it in sections about London. In the circumstances, he never had a chance of escaping, and the verdict of the jury was everybody's opinion, including that of the presiding judges, Tindal, Coleridge and Coltman.

The woman was found guilty of murder, too, but the law was satisfied with the execution of the actual murderer, and Sarah Gale's punishment was transportation beyond the seas for life. Undoubtedly she took a very prominent part in the crime, and but for her readiness to aid and abet Greenacre the latter would not have murdered the woman who had tried to trick him into marriage and paid for her failure with her life.

James Greenacre was executed publicly on May 2nd, 1837, and a contemporary account of the scene makes it difficult to believe that thirty-one years were to pass before such a spectacle became impossible.

"The Old Bailey and every spot which could command a view of the spot were crowded to excess," wrote an anonymous journalist. "From the hour of twelve on Monday night up to the moment the execution took place, the Old Bailey presented one living mass of human beings. Every house which commanded a view of the spot was filled by well-dressed men and women, who paid from five shillings to ten shillings for a seat. A great number of gentlemen were admitted within the walls of Newgate, by orders of the sheriffs, anxious to witness the last moments of the convict. During the whole of Monday night the area in front of Newgate was a crowded scene of bustle and confusion, and the public-houses and the coffee-shops were never closed. The local officers connected with the watch had plenty of business on their hands in consequence of the thefts that were committed, and the broils and pugilistic encounters of many a nocturnal adventurer. Divers windows were broken and many heads felt the force of a constable's truncheon. The language of the vast multitude was vile in the highest degree, and songs of a libidinous nature were chanted. At one period of the night the mob bid open defiance to the whole posse of watchmen and constables, and not only rescued thieves, but broke the watch-house windows. Vehicles of every description drove up in quick succession. The passengers, seemingly having their curiosity gratified by the gloomy aspect of the walls, retired to make way for another train. Occasionally a carriage full of gentlemen, and, we believe, in some instances accompanied by ladies, mingled for a moment amidst the eager crowd.... All who had procured places in the windows commanding a view of the place of execution made sure of their seats by occupying them several hours before the dismal preparations commenced. There was not at any time of the night less than two thousand persons in the street. Several persons remained all night clinging to the lamp-posts. The occupier of any house that had still a seat undisposed of informed the public of the vacancy by announcing the fact on large placards posted on the walls, and forthwith the rush of competitors was greater than on any former occasion."

Inside the gaol the condemned man was being exhibited to the curiosity-mongers who had sufficient influence with the sheriffs to obtain the right to inspect and torment the convict, and an hour before his death Greenacre was cross-examined by an amateur theologian and caused "great grief" to the company by hinting that Christ was not divine.

The contemporary report continues:

"The culprit having been pinioned, Mr. Cope handed him over, with the death-warrant, to the sheriffs to see execution done upon him. About five minutes before eight the procession was formed and began to move towards the gallows.... On his appearance outside he was greeted with a storm of terrific yells and hisses, mingled with groans, cheers and other expressions of reproach, revenge, hatred and contumely.... As the body hung quivering in mortal agonies, the eyes of the assembled thousands were riveted upon the swaying corpse with a kind of satisfaction, and all seemed pleased with the removal of such a blood-stained murderer from the land."

In the condemned cell Greenacre wrote a euphemistic autobiography and "An Essay on the Human Mind"—both these productions were added to the archives at Newgate—and between outbursts of piety and blasphemy he boasted of his popularity with the fair sex—he said he had been married four times—and seemed to be concerned for the future of Sarah Gale. She survived him by fifty-one years, eventually dying in 1888 in Australia, a venerable, white-haired matron who had outlived her sins.