Amongst female poisoners Catherine Wilson takes a leading place. She had an active career as a professional murderess extending to ten years, perhaps even longer than that, but we do know that she committed murder in 1853, and she was not brought to justice and executed until 1862. A very long career, indeed, for a woman whose ignorance was only equalled by her cunning, and whose gaunt and unfavourable exterior was in keeping with a black heart and a diseased brain.

The first time the public heard the name of this poisoner was in the month of April, 1862, when she stood in the dock in Marylebone Police Court, and was charged with having attempted to murder a Mrs. Connell by administering poison to her.

Mrs. Connell had been living apart from her husband, and, having found a lonely and companionless life irksome to her, she began to long for a reconciliation with the man who had wooed and won her not so many years previously. Of course, to effect this it was necessary to find a sympathetic woman who would be able to approach Mr. Connell and delicately and tactfully sound him as to his views regarding a reunion with his wife. For some unexplained reason Mrs. Connell asked Catherine Wilson to act as intermediary, and to prepare her for the task Mrs. Connell invited the widow to have tea with her. She opened her heart to her guest, did not conceal the fact that she had a little money of her own, and volunteered other information, while the hard-faced creature with the eyes of a tigress sat opposite and planned her death.

The conversation was abruptly ended by a cry of pain from Mrs. Connell. She had not noticed that although Mrs. Wilson was only a guest she had poured out the last cup of tea for her, and she thought that her illness was the result of worry and overstrain.

Of course Mrs. Wilson instantly became sympathetically attentive. The hard eyes even moistened as she helped Mrs. Connell upstairs and laid her gently and tenderly on her bed. Then she ran off to the nearest chemist's shop and brought back a bottle of medicine, but when Mrs. Connell took some of it her sufferings became intensified. Catherine Wilson soothingly offered some more of the "medicine" she had brought from the chemist's, and Mrs. Connell, writhing in her agony, again tried to drink it, but spilt a little of it on the bed-clothes. The "medicine" was so strong that it actually burnt holes in the linen!

Mrs. Connell did not die, though she suffered a great deal, and at one time nearly succumbed.

The matter was too serious to be allowed to rest, and, as she had been told by Mrs. Wilson that it was the chemist's fault for giving her such medicine, she called on him for an explanation. The chemist, astounded and angered by the charge, quickly proved that the medicine he had sold was perfectly harmless, and when the police were sent for he demonstrated conclusively that if anything noxious had been added to the contents of the bottle the only person who could have done it was the woman who had conveyed it from his shop to Mrs. Connell.

After that there was only one thing to do, and that was to arrest Catherine Wilson, who had disappeared a few days previously. Her flight was in itself almost a confession, and for six weeks she managed to evade the detectives who were searching for her, but by chance she was recognized by an officer when he was off duty, and he took her into custody.

After several appearances at the Marylebone Police Court she was committed for trial, and, under close supervision, she calmly awaited the day of the great ordeal.

And while she is in prison we can trace her history up to the spring of 1862.

It was towards the close of the summer of 1853 that a widower of the name of Mawer advertised for a housekeeper. He lived in the pleasant town of Boston, in Lincolnshire, was prosperous, and he would have been quite happy but for gout, an enemy with which he was daily fighting, using as his principal weapon a poison—colchicum—which, taken in small doses, is often prescribed by doctors. In large quantities it is, of course, fatal.

Catherine Wilson was one of the applicants for the post, and she was successful in obtaining it. She called herself a widow, and, perhaps, there had been a husband once who may have been her first victim. Mr. Mawer, however, thought her a respectable, hardworking woman, and she certainly proved unremitting in her attentions to him.

Within a few months they were intimate friends, and the housekeeper was so assiduous and helpful that Mr. Mawer's gout became much better. He told Catherine Wilson that it was entirely due to her, and to prove his gratitude he informed her that he had drawn up a will bequeathing everything to her. It was a fatal disclosure, for had he not disclosed to her his testamentary dispositions there can be little doubt but that he would have lived much longer than he did. The poisoner began her fell work at once, tempted by the prospect of gain, and as she had the poison already in the house there was no way of escape for the unfortunate man.

In October, 1854, he died, poisoned with colchicum, as the doctor discovered; but, as Mr. Mawer was known to have used that poison to counteract the gout, no suspicion was attached to the "heartbroken" housekeeper.

Mr. Mawer's fortune was not as large as the woman had imagined it to be. Still, it amounted to a few hundred pounds, and the murderess, who had good reasons for not wishing to remain too long in Boston, packed up and came to London.

She did not come alone, for when she took lodgings at the house of a Mrs. Soames, at 27 Alfred Street, Bedford Square, she was accompanied by a man of the name of Dixon, whom she described as her husband. And packed away in her trunk was a large packet of colchicum, which had been left over after Mr. Mawer had been disposed of. There was enough of the poison to kill half a dozen persons. Perhaps if Mr. Dixon had been aware of that he might not have been so anxious to caress this human tigress.

But Catherine Wilson soon discovered that she had very little use for Dixon. He did not make enough money to please her, and when the last of Mr. Mawer's legacy had been spent she began to look about her for a fresh victim. Dixon was clearly in the way, particularly so since that Saturday night when he had returned home intoxicated and had struck her. The wretched man had no money, and Wilson had grown tired of him. Besides, their landlady, Mrs. Soames was by now Wilson's intimate friend, and she had learned that Mrs. Soames was by no means dependent on letting lodgings and that she had moneyed relatives and friends. Before she could attack Mrs. Soames it was necessary Dixon should be removed.

One day Dixon was taken ill, a curious wasting illness accompanied by terrible pains in the chest. Wilson hastened to assure everybody she knew that her "husband" had always suffered from consumption, although, as she had to confess, outwardly he appeared to be very strong and healthy. After administering a few small doses of colchicum the monster finished off with a strong dose, and then the "widow" tearfully implored the doctor not to cut her "dear one" up because during his lifetime he had expressed a horror of that "indignity."

But the doctor would not give a death certificate without a post-mortem examination, for, Mrs. Wilson having insisted that the cause of Dixon's death was galloping consumption, the medical man was curious. His curiosity deepened when on opening the body he found the lungs absolutely perfect. Consumption then was not the reason. But what was? The doctors were puzzled, yet in some extraordinary manner Catherine Wilson wriggled out of danger, and Dixon was buried. No one accused her, and even if the doctor had his suspicions he never gave a hint of them.

The "widow" went about in mourning, and as she was quite alone in the world now Mrs. Soames was sweeter and more sympathetic than ever, and night after night the two women sat in the cosy little room Mrs. Wilson rented, and there exchanged confidences. The poisoner had a long series of skilful lies ready to impress her friend, but Mrs. Soames, who had nothing to conceal, disclosed the story of her life, and added particulars of her friends and relations.

When she told Mrs. Wilson after breakfast one morning that she was going out to receive from her step-brother a legacy which had been left her by an aunt the poisoner once again experienced that irresistible desire to take human life. But here there seemed to be no reason why she should run the risk of committing a cold-blooded crime. By killing Mrs. Soames she could not become possessed of her property, for the landlady had children, and she also had several male relatives who would have interfered at once had Mrs. Soames died and made a comparative stranger her sole heir.

Mrs. Soames was paid the money and returned home, where her married daughter had tea ready for her. They drank it alone, but as they were finishing Mrs. Wilson came to the door and asked the landlady to come upstairs with her. The request was complied with at once.

What happened at the interview we can only conjecture. Probably Mrs. Wilson first congratulated Mrs. Soames on the receipt of the legacy. Then she may have invited her to join her in a drink to her continued prosperity. Whatever did happen it is certain that from the time of that secret interview Mrs. Soames was never the same woman again.

The landlady could not get up next morning at her usual time. This was remarkable, because she was noted for her early rising, and she was not happy unless superintending the work of her house. Mrs. Wilson was, of course, deeply concerned for her friend, and she asked the daughter to be permitted to look after her mother.

Without waiting for permission the depraved creature appointed herself the only nurse, and she would not allow anyone else to give the patient her medicines. All the special food, too, passed through her hands, and when compelled by sheer exhaustion to take a little rest Wilson did not return to her own bedroom, but snatched a couple of hours sleep in an arm-chair in Mrs. Soames's room.

On the fourth day of her illness Mrs. Soames had ceased to vomit, and was not suffering any pain. Catherine Wilson pretended to be delighted, though really she was puzzled by the marvellous recovery the landlady had made. By sheer luck she had managed to resist the poison her "nurse" had been giving her. Of course she did not suspect this, nor could she gather from the concerned look on Wilson's face that the truth was that the murderess of Mr. Mawer and Dixon was going to give her a large dose of colchicum that very day and kill her.

Bending over the patient, Wilson offered her another dose of medicine, and the trusting woman took it with gratitude, for she had told her "friend" that her recovery was due to her nursing. But within a few minutes the landlady was screaming in agony again, and an hour later Catherine Wilson was silently weeping by the window while the doctor, who had been summoned in haste, announced that Mrs. Soames was dead.

The same doctor had attended Dixon, and although the symptoms were similar in both cases he did not suspect Catherine Wilson of murder. Mr. Whidburn—that was his name—was studiously correct, and, as in the case of Dixon, he refused to give a medical certificate without a post-mortem examination. He made the examination himself, and then certified that death had occurred from natural causes. Mrs. Soames's nearest relation received the certificate, and the murderess was safe. She surprised the family, however, by a demand for the payment of ten pounds which she said her late landlady owed her, and when she adduced proof in the shape of a signed promise to pay by Mrs. Soames the money was handed over. Nothing was said as to anything Mrs. Wilson may have owed Mrs. Soames. Later it was known that she had borrowed a fairly large sum from the kind-hearted landlady, and it was suspected with good cause that the promissory note for ten pounds was a forgery. But these were of no importance when later the gravest of all charges was made against the poisoner.

The death of Mrs. Soames resulted in another change of address for Catherine Wilson, and she went some distance away from Bedford Square, engaging rooms in Loughborough Road, Brixton.

The poisoner was well off, and did not stint herself, and it was assumed by her new acquaintance that the late Mr. Wilson had dowered her with sufficient goods to enable her to live independently of the world.

It may be noted here that a few weeks before the death of Mrs. Soames, Wilson had spent nearly a fortnight shopping with a friend from the North, Mrs. Atkinson. One day Mrs. Atkinson had had the misfortune to lose a purse containing fifty-one pounds. It was a terrible blow, and Mrs. Wilson was so grieved for her that she offered to lend her all the spare cash she had. The offer was refused—as Wilson had known it would be—and Mrs. Atkinson had returned home without having breathed a word against her old friend. But when Catherine Wilson came back after seeing Mrs. Atkinson off from King's Cross she was in funds, and the following day she made an extensive purchase of clothes for herself. Picking the pocket of her best friend was the smallest of sins to a woman who could take human life without a moment's hesitation.

It was the custom of Mrs. Atkinson to come to London once a year, and generally during the month of October. She and her husband lived in Kirkby Lonsdale, in Cumberland. Mr. Atkinson was a tailor, while his wife ran a millinery and dressmaking establishment on her own account. Strict attention to business and frugal living were the sources of the prosperity of the Atkinsons, and, on her annual visits to London Mrs. Atkinson never came provided with less than a hundred pounds with which to buy stock. She carried the notes concealed about her person, and, of course, her severe loss in 1859 made her more careful than ever when she came to London in the October of 1860.

Mrs. Atkinson's visit to the Metropolis was exceedingly well-timed from Wilson's point of view. All the money she had obtained during the previous twelve months had vanished, and she was behind with her rent. Her new landlady, fiercely practical, was demanding payment every day, and her affairs were so bad that, beyond the paltry breakfast she extracted from the landlady, she often saw no food during a whole day. It would not have done to have disclosed the true state of affairs to her friend from the North. That might have frightened her away. She invited her to stay with her, and then she told her landlady that her prosperous friend would lend her the money to pay all her debts. In the circumstances the landlady was only too pleased to see Mrs. Atkinson in her house. Mrs. Atkinson left Kirkby Lonsdale in perfect health, and looking forward with zest to her stay in London. A keen business woman, she, nevertheless, knew how to combine business with pleasure, and, having said good-bye to her husband, she departed in excellent spirits. Mrs. Wilson met her at the terminus, and after a substantial tea—for which, of course, the visitor paid—they went by omnibus to Loughborough Road, Brixton, and, as the landlady afterwards testified, Mrs. Atkinson arrived there in the best of health, light-hearted and jolly. She must have been a sharp contrast to Catherine Wilson, whose countenance was repulsive, and whose manner was the secretive one of the poisoner.

The women went about everywhere together, Mrs. Atkinson paying all expenses. On this occasion the visitor had brought a hundred and ten pounds in notes with her, for business had been good and her customers were increasing. The hungry eyes of Catherine Wilson gleamed at the sight of the notes, and her bony fingers longed to clutch them. Every day saw the number of notes grow gradually less as Mrs. Atkinson was buying stock, and the poisoner knew that unless she hurried there would not be enough money left to make it worth her while to add to her list of crimes.

On the fourth day Mr. Atkinson was busy in his shop at Kirkby Lonsdale when a telegram was handed to him. He read it anxiously—for telegrams were a novelty—and nearly collapsed under the blow. The message was from Loughborough Road, Brixton, London, S.W., and it said that his wife was dangerously ill. Flinging all business on one side the unhappy man hastened to London, arriving only in time to watch her die. She was unconscious when he entered the room, and passed away without a word to him.

The broken-hearted husband was stunned by the blow, and his poor wife's "friend" was prostrated. Mrs. Wilson, he was informed, had taken to her bed upon being informed of her dearest friend's death, and her grief was so intense that she was with difficulty induced to give a brief account of Mrs. Atkinson's last day on earth.

The doctor assured Mr. Atkinson that no one could be more surprised than he was at the fatal termination of Mrs. Atkinson's illness. An extensive practice had brought him into contact with death in many shapes, but there was nothing like this in all his experience. He advised a post-mortem examination to ascertain the cause of death, and the husband of the murdered woman seemed inclined to sanction that course when Catherine Wilson came forward with a pathetic story of a dying request from Mrs. Atkinson that she, her best friend, would see to it that her body was not "cut up."

In the most natural manner the poisoner told her lie, and Mr. Atkinson, to whom every word of his wife was sacred, withheld his approval, and no examination took place.

Now, Mr. Atkinson was well aware that his wife had brought a hundred and ten pounds to London with her, and he searched for the notes amongst her effects. When he failed to discover a single one he turned to Mrs. Wilson for an explanation. Had his wife paid all the money away? It was most unlikely that she had. But he was even more astounded when Mrs. Wilson informed him that his wife had arrived in London with only her return ticket and a few shillings.

"Didn't she write and tell you what happened?" said the poisoner, who was dressed in black, and carried a pocket handkerchief with which she dabbed her eyes every other moment.

"No, I didn't get a single letter from her," said Mr. Atkinson. "I was a bit surprised, but I thought she was too busy to write."

Catherine Wilson knew this, for she had destroyed two letters which Mrs. Atkinson had written to her husband, the unfortunate woman having entrusted them to her to post. She now pretended to fathom the reason for Mrs. Atkinson's silence.

"She was so tender-hearted, Mr. Atkinson," she said, with a catch in her voice, "that she wouldn't tell you the bad news. I'm sorry to say that she was robbed of all her money at Rugby."

"Rugby!" exclaimed Mr. Atkinson, in astonishment. "What was she doing at Rugby? I don't understand you."

"She was taken ill in the train," said the woman, lying glibly, "and when it stopped at Rugby she got out. Soon afterwards she became faint again, and when she recovered she found she had been robbed. Then she came on here and told me, and I've been lending her money to get about. She was hoping the money would be recovered before she had to tell you. Oh, she was goodness itself, and I have lost my dearest and only friend."

She sank into a chair, sobbing as though her heart was breaking, and Mr. Atkinson, who had been seized with a suspicion, engendered by a memory of the loss of the purse containing fifty-one pounds the year before, dismissed his thoughts as unfair to the woman who was mourning so whole-heartedly over the loss of the wife he loved. He did not dwell any longer on the disappearance of the notes. After all, his wife was dead, and all the money in the world could not bring her back to him.

He journeyed home again, and Catherine Wilson waited only for a week to go by before she paid her debts, added to her wardrobe, and proudly exhibited a diamond ring which she said Mr. Atkinson had given her as a small token of his gratitude for her care of his wife. It had been the property of the late Mrs. Atkinson, but the poisoner had stolen it before the body of her victim was cold.

It may well be asked how Catherine Wilson could commit so many cold-blooded murders unchecked. It seems to us that it ought to have been impossible for a healthy woman to die in agony and yet be buried without a coroner's inquest. But that is what happened sixty-one years ago, and we must be thankful that nowadays a person of the Catherine Wilson type would have an extremely brief career.

The cases described do not comprise all her crimes. There were two other persons she attacked with her poisons who happily escaped with their lives, and there was an old lady in Boston who died in such circumstances that it is practically certain Catherine Wilson poisoned her. She had been friendly with her, and her sudden death benefited Wilson to the extent of over a hundred pounds.

Such is the history of the woman who was arrested for attempting to poison Mrs. Connell. The period between committal for trial and the proceedings at the Old Bailey was a protracted one, but the prisoner maintained a sullen demeanour whilst under the care of the prison authorities. Occasionally she protested her innocence, but she was crafty enough not to say much, and when she entered the dock at the Central Criminal Court she was still a human enigma to all who had come in contact with her.

That she appeared confident of a favourable verdict was obvious, and it had to be admitted that whilst the prosecution had plenty of surmise and suspicion they had very little legal proof. The defence relied almost entirely on the absence of motive and the fact that no one had actually seen the prisoner place the poison in Mrs. Connell's medicine. There were a great many suspicious circumstances which the prosecution rightly demanded an explanation of, but the prisoner's counsel pointed out that his client must be assumed to be innocent until her guilt was proved. It was no part of his duty to incriminate her or assist the prosecution. The judge summed up in a way which indicated that in his opinion the prosecution had not established beyond all doubt the guilt of the prisoner, and the jury, realizing that if they made a mistake and sent an innocent woman to the gallows they could not undo it, decided to be on the safe side. They, therefore, returned a verdict of "Not Guilty," and Catherine Wilson, poisoner, forger and thief, left the dock with a smile on her hard face and a glint of triumph in her eyes.

How she must have laughed in secret at her victory! What fools she must have thought the twelve good men and true were! Her character was vindicated, and she was safe. She was to suffer a severe shock, however.

A few days later an amiable-looking man stopped her just as she was leaving her lodgings.

"Excuse me," he said politely, one hand in his pocket wherein lay an important legal document, "but are you Mrs. Catherine Wilson?"

"Yes," said the poisoner, who feared no one after her Old Bailey triumph. "What do you want with me?"

"I am a police officer," he answered, producing the paper, "and I must ask you to accompany me to the station. I have a warrant for your arrest on a charge of murder."

"Murder?" she gasped, terrified for a moment. Then she laughed. "Whose murder?" She might well ask that question seeing that there were several with which she could have been charged.

"That of Mrs. Soames, of 27 Alfred Street, Bedford Square," he answered, glancing at the warrant.

The police had not been idle during that long remand following the mysterious poisoning of Mrs. Connell. They had delved completely into Catherine Wilson's past, and when they had compiled a list of her crimes the authorities decided that they would arrest her again and charge her with Mrs. Soames's death. They could have added others, but, knowing with whom they were dealing, they thought it better to keep the cases of Mr. Mawer and Mrs. Atkinson in reserve. Should her first trial for murder result in acquittal they would charge her with having caused the death of Mrs. Atkinson, and so on, until they had removed this danger to society.

But the prosecution made no mistake this time, and Catherine Wilson was in the coils from the moment she listened to the outline of the case against her at the Police Court.

Further facts were brought forward at the Old Bailey, and so skilfully did the authorities present their case that when the jury returned their verdict of guilty, and Mr. Justice Byles was passing sentence, he could say: "The result upon my mind is that I have no more doubt that you committed the crime than if I had seen it committed with my own eyes."

With a smile of contempt the poisoner left the dock and when she was led forth to die in public, and twenty thousand persons watched her last moments, she presented the same cool, sneering manner, absolutely indifferent to her fate, quite unafraid of death, and without a word of sorrow or repentance for her terrible crimes.