Decline of the English Murder Essay
It is Sunday afternoon, preferably before the war. The wife is already asleep in the
armchair, and the children have been sent out for a nice long walk. You put your feet up
on the sofa, settle your spectacles on your nose, and open the
News of the World
. Roast
beef and Yorkshire, or roast pork and apple sauce, followed up by suet pudding and
driven home, as it were, by a cup of mahogany-brown tea, have put you in just the right
mood. Your pipe is drawing sweetly, the sofa cushions are soft underneath you, the fire
is well alight, the air is warm and stagnant. In these blissful circumstances, what is it
that you want to read about?
Naturally, about a murder. But what kind of murder? If one examines the murders
which have given the greatest amount of pleasure to the British public, the murders
whose story is known in its general outline to almost everyone and which have been
made into novels and re-hashed over and over again by the Sunday papers, one finds a
fairly strong family resemblance running through the greater number of them. Our great
period in murder, our Elizabethan period, so to speak, seems to have been between
roughly 1850 and 1925, and the murderers whose reputation has stood the test of time
are the following: Dr. Palmer of Rugely, Jack the Ripper, Neill Cream, Mrs. Maybrick,
Dr. Crippen, Seddon, Joseph Smith, Armstrong, and Bywaters and Thompson. In
addition, in 1919 or thereabouts, there was another very celebrated case which fits into
the general pattern but which I had better not mention by name, because the accused
man was acquitted.
Of the above-mentioned nine cases, at least four have had successful novels based
on them, one has been made into a popular melodrama, and the amount of literature
surrounding them, in the form of newspaper write-ups, criminological treatises and
reminiscences by lawyers and police officers, would make a considerable library. It is
difficult to believe that any recent English crime will be remembered so long and so
intimately, and not only because the violence of external events has made murder seem
unimportant, but because the prevalent type of crime seems to be changing. The
principal
cause célèbre
of the war years was the so-called Cleft Chin Murder, which has
now been written up in a popular booklet
(1)
; the verbatim account of the trial was
published some time last year by Messrs. Jarrolds with an introduction by Mr.
Bechhofer Roberts. Before returning to this pitiful and sordid case, which is only
interesting from a sociological and perhaps a legal point of view, let me try to define
what it is that the readers of Sunday papers mean when they say fretfully that ‘you never
seem to get a good murder nowadays’.
In considering the nine murders I named above, one can start by excluding the
Jack the Ripper case, which is in a class by itself. Of the other eight, six were poisoning
cases, and eight of the ten criminals belonged to the middle class. In one way or another,
sex was a powerful motive in all but two cases, and in at least four cases respectability —
the desire to gain a secure position in life, or not to forfeit one's social position by some
scandal such as a divorce — was one of the main reasons for committing murder. In
more than half the cases, the object was to get hold of a certain known sum of money
such as a legacy or an insurance policy, but the amount involved was nearly always
small. In most of the cases the crime only came to light slowly, as the result of careful
investigations which started off with the suspicions of neighbours or relatives; and in
nearly every case there was some dramatic coincidence, in which the finger of
Providence could be clearly seen, or one of those episodes that no novelist would dare to
make up, such as Crippen's flight across the Atlantic with his mistress dressed as a boy,
or Joseph Smith playing ‘Nearer, my God, to Thee’ on the harmonium while one of his
wives was drowning in the next room. The background of all these crimes, except Neill
Cream's, was essentially domestic; of twelve victims, seven were either wife or husband
of the murderer.
With all this in mind one can construct what would be, from a
News of the World
reader's point of view, the ‘perfect’ murder. The murderer should be a little man of the
professional class — a dentist or a solicitor, say — living an intensely respectable life
somewhere in the suburbs, and preferably in a semi-detached house, which will allow
the neighbours to hear suspicious sounds through the wall. He should be either
chairman of the local Conservative Party branch, or a leading Nonconformist and strong
Temperance advocate. He should go astray through cherishing a guilty passion for his
secretary or the wife of a rival professional man, and should only bring himself to the
point of murder after long and terrible wrestles with his conscience. Having decided on
murder, he should plan it all with the utmost cunning, and only slip up over some tiny
unforeseeable detail. The means chosen should, of course, be poison. In the last analysis
he should commit murder because this seems to him less disgraceful, and less damaging
to his career, than being detected in adultery. With this kind of background, a crime can
have dramatic and even tragic qualities which make it memorable and excite pity for
both victim and murderer. Most of the crimes mentioned above have a touch of this
atmosphere, and in three cases, including the one I referred to but did not name, the
story approximates to the one I have outlined.
Now compare the Cleft Chin Murder. There is no depth of feeling in it. It was
almost chance that the two people concerned committed that particular murder, and it
was only by good luck that they did not commit several others. The background was not
domesticity, but the anonymous life of the dance-halls and the false values of the
American film. The two culprits were an eighteen-year-old ex-waitress named Elizabeth
Jones, and an American army deserter, posing as an officer, named Karl Hulten. They
were only together for six days, and it seems doubtful whether, until they were arrested,
they even learned one another's true names. They met casually in a teashop, and that
night went out for a ride in a stolen army truck. Jones described herself as a strip-tease
artist, which was not strictly true (she had given one unsuccessful performance in this
line); and declared that she wanted to do something dangerous, ‘like being a gun-moll’.
Hulten described himself as a big-time Chicago gangster, which was also untrue. They
met a girl bicycling along the road, and to show how tough he was Hulten ran over her
with his truck, after which the pair robbed her of the few shillings that were on her. On
another occasion they knocked out a girl to whom they had offered a lift, took her coat
and handbag and threw her into a river. Finally, in the most wanton way, they murdered
a taxi-driver who happened to have £8 in his pocket. Soon afterwards they parted.
Hulten was caught because he had foolishly kept the dead man's car, and Jones made
spontaneous confessions to the police. In court each prisoner incriminated the other. In
between crimes, both of them seem to have behaved with the utmost callousness: they
spent the dead taxi-driver's £8 at the dog races.
Judging from her letters, the girl's case has a certain amount of psychological
interest, but this murder probably captured the headlines because it provided
distraction amid the doodle-bugs and the anxieties of the Battle of France. Jones and
Hulten committed their murder to the tune of V1, and were convicted to the tune of V2.
There was also considerable excitement because — as has become usual in England —
the man was sentenced to death and the girl to imprisonment. According to Mr.
Raymond, the reprieving of Jones caused widespread indignation and streams of
telegrams to the Home Secretary: in her native town,
‘SHE SHOULD HANG’
was chalked
on the walls beside pictures of a figure dangling from a gallows. Considering that only
ten women have been hanged in Britain this century, and that the practice has gone out
largely because of popular feeling against it, it is difficult not to feel that this clamour to
hang an eighteen-year-old girl was due partly to the brutalizing effects of war. Indeed,
the whole meaningless story, with its atmosphere of dance-halls, movie-palaces, cheap
perfume, false names and stolen cars, belongs essentially to a war period.
Perhaps it is significant that the most talked-of English murder of recent years
should have been committed by an American and an English girl who had become partly
Americanized. But it is difficult to believe that this case will be so long remembered as
the old domestic poisoning dramas, product of a stable society where the all-prevailing
hypocrisy did at least ensure that crimes as serious as murder should have strong
emotions behind them.
