THE MYSTERY
OF A FOUR-WHEELED CAB.

ON the 27th of February, 1889, the inhabitants of the good city of Manchester on opening their morning papers were startled by an announcement that on the previous evening a gentleman had been found dead in a cab in the centre of the city under mysterious and suspicious circumstances, which bore a strong resemblance to those with which the public had just then become familiar in the popular Australian novel, "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab."

      Here was a case in which the old proverb, "Truth is stranger than fiction," received curious confirmation, and people began to ask themselves whether it was possible for outrages of this kind to occur in the midst of a well-governed and populous city without the perpetrator or perpetrators being brought to justice. The public excitement was intense, especially as there had been several serious crimes in various parts of the country for which there had been no arrests, and the usual cry went forth — "Where are the police?"

      The police, meantime, were doing their duty, and lost no time in fully inquiring into the matter. The case might be surrounded by suspicious circumstances, but it did not follow that a crime had been committed. This was the question to solve in the first place; and if it were answered in the affirmative, the second was, "Who is the criminal?" All that was then known of the case was that an unknown gentleman entered a cab in company with a young man, also unknown, near the Manchester Cathedral early the previous evening; that they had stopped some time at a public-house in Deansgate; and that, later in the evening, whilst driving along one of the busiest thoroughfares of the city, the driver of the cab, observing one of the doors of the vehicle open, alighted to close it, when he found that the young man had disappeared, and that his companion was insensible. The cabman, on the advice of a constable, drove the unfortunate man to the Infirmary; but, on reaching that institution, he was found to be dead.

      The matter having been placed in my hands, inquiries soon elicited the fact that the deceased was a gentleman well known on 'Change, the senior partner in a firm of paper manufacturers who had offices in the city, a justice of the peace, and a member of the Lancashire County Council. He was a widower, and had left his home, some distance from Manchester, on the morning of Feb. 26, taking with him some under-linen and other articles, as he purposed to stay at Knutsford until the week-end.

      On his arrival in Manchester he proceeded to the offices of his firm, where he stayed until about one o'clock, and upon leaving said he was going to the sale of a mill, which was to take place in the afternoon at the Mitre Hotel, near the Cathedral. There is little doubt that he carried out this intention, for he was seen at the hotel by several friends, one of whom arranged to meet him at a restaurant known as Sinclair's, in Victoria Market, at seven o'clock the same evening, but the deceased did not keep the appointment.

      I next ascertained that he was seen at a stall in the neighbourhood of this restaurant, about twenty minutes to seven, in the company of a young man dressed in light check clothes, whom no one appeared to know. Soon after the deceased was noticed by a constable near Cateaton Street, with a young man whom he described as about 22 years of age, dressed in a dark brown suit, a pot hat, and about five feet two inches in height, fresh looking, no side whiskers or moustache. They hailed a cab, and drove away.

      The cabman's story was that he drove the deceased and his companion to the Three Arrows public-house, where they kept him waiting fifteen or twenty minutes, and then told him to drive to 43, Stretford Road. On his way thither he met a procession in connection. with "Mexican Joe's" show, which was then exhibiting in Manchester, and, as there was a great crowd, he had to walk his horse. After the procession had passed he drove on again; but after he had gone a short distance a man called out to him, "A young fellow has just jumped out of your cab and run down Cambridge Street."

      On looking round he saw that the near side door of his cab was open. He got off the box, and found the old gentleman sitting on the back seat with his head on the front seat. He lifted him up, rubbed his ears to awaken him, and found him in a stupid, intoxicated condition; but the only answer he got was, "Go away, and leave me alone." He re-mounted the box, and to avoid the crowd in Stretford Road drawn together by the procession, drove through Renshaw Street and Boundary Street, and thence back to the Cathedral, where he saw the constable before referred to, told him what had occurred, and asked him to help him to get his fare. The constable spoke to the deceased, who did not answer, and thinking that he was intoxicated he got inside the cab with him, and told the cabman to drive to Albert Street Police Station.

      On their way thither, however, the constable became anxious about the condition of the man, and instructed the cabman to go to the Infirmary, where he was at once examined by a doctor and found to be dead. The cabman's description was that the young fellow was about five feet three inches in height, clean shaven and fresh face. He had on a brown suit, a watch guard, and a felt hat, which agreed pretty well with the story told by the constable.

      The shop at 43, Stretford Road was occupied by a tailor, who had no knowledge whatever of the deceased, and could not suggest any reason why he should want to go there.

      No marks of violence were found on the body, and the doctor who examined it when it was brought to the Infirmary found no signs of poison, and could detect nothing but alcohol.

      In the course of my inquiries, however, I learned that when he left, the deceased was wearing a watch and chain worth about one hundred and twenty pounds. He still had it when he was seen at the stall near Sinclair's restaurant, and he was also in possession of a purse containing gold, from which he took a sovereign at the Mitre Hotel. He also wore a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. On his clothes being searched strong presumptive evidence was afforded that the deceased had been robbed, since no money or valuables of any kind were found upon him, his sole possessions being two empty spectacle cases and a cheque book issued from the Southport branch of the Manchester and Salford Bank. Whether the suspicion was well founded that in the perpetration of the robbery a more serious crime had been committed could not be cleared up until the result of the post-mortem examination had been made known; but the result of my inquiries justified me in searching for the unknown young man, and asking for some explanation of his mysterious conduct.

      The case at present stood thus: the deceased and his companion took a cab from Oliver Cromwell's monument at ten minutes to seven on the evening of the 26th of February, and proceeded to the Three Arrows public-house, whence the young man ordered the cabman to drive to an address, which was only a lock-up shop, in Stretford Road, where the deceased was not known and could not have had business; and that during the drive thither the young man jumped from the cab, leaving his companion in a senseless state, and without his valuables. Though the doctors could not say whether death was the result of natural causes or not, it was clear that some explanation was needed about the bogus address, the disappearance of the money and other valuables, and the flight of the youth.

      Who was the youth? Some one about five feet three inches or five feet two inches in height, clean shaven, and fresh complexion, wearing a brown or light check suit and a felt hat; or, as another account put it, about five feet four inches in height, light complexion, and rather red in the face. He might be five feet two, three, or four inches in height, he might wear a brown suit or a light check suit, and he was light-complexioned and red in the face. Certainly not much of a clue to work upon!

      The great improvements that have taken place in the City of Manchester within the last half-century have completely altered the aspect of the town, and the numerous timbered houses, with their black and white ornamentations, that looked down upon the beginning of the struggle between Charles the First and his Parliament, and on the Highlanders who followed Prince Charlie when local Jacobites welcomed him to Manchester, have disappeared, leaving only here and there a landmark, as if to remind us of the past. In Market Place there still stands one of the oldest houses in or about the city, and, like many more of our ancient residences, it has become a licensed house, yclept the Wellington Inn, but better known by its more popular name of "Kenyon Junction," from the name of the landlord. The property belonged to the Byrom family for many generations, and was left by the late Miss Atherton to Mr. Edward Fox on the condition of his assuming the name of Byrom. The old house has looked down upon many scenes, and the Market has undergone many changes since one of the Byroms occupied a milliner's stall in front of the old house, or even since Alexander Wilson sang the "Humours of Smithy Door."

Good laws! What a medley of groups On Saturday haunts Smithy Door! What squalling, and bawling, and shouts! What wise, simple, gentle, and poor! There's Eccles cakes merchants a-many, There's hot pies and good Cheshire cheese, There's matches-eight bundles a penny — And snuff to make old women sneeze. There's plenty of ale to be sold, The toper does very well know; And if the weather proves cold, There's gin, rum, and brandy also.

      Nowadays we never see the gallant knight handing to her saddle his lady-love after an honest and wholesome draught of mine host's "home-brewed." The old swinging sign has gone, and been replaced by a modern lamp of large dimensions. The "home-brewed" is also a thing of the past, and the nowaday cyclist has taken the place of the courteous squire. The wagon, with its long pole and two handsome bays that daily drew up to the door on the journey to and from the Manchester warehouse, while the jolly carter ate his frugal meal beside the hospitable fire, have disappeared since the advent of the railroad service and the motor car.

      The faces, too, one used to see! Where are they? For some they have died, and some they have left me, and some are taken from me. All are departed — all, all are gone — the old familiar faces.

      How much of the personal history of the city may yet be learned in the inns of the Market Place? Here doughty neighbours meet, and whether public or private topics are the theme, their battles are fought over again with renewed vigour, and sustained by facts and illustrations of which statesmen and leaders never dreamed; and whether it is the ale, gin, rum, or brandy that Alexander Wilson sang about, the "twa of Scotch," or, on the principle of birds of prey congregating where their victims are to be found, certain it is that the Market Place is the rendezvous of all kinds and conditions of men. Here can be found the cotton merchant, the bookmaker, the blackleg, the broken-down clerk or warehouseman, the man who lives by his wits, and the man who has no wits but dodgery to live upon. Here it was, without doubt, that the deceased paper merchant with his money had dropped across his young companion, who was evidently using his wits for his living, for he had left the Mitre Hotel about half-past five, and the two had been seen together near the Market Place about an hour after; and here it was thought that I should probably hear something of the young culprit who was wanted, for probably he was one of the many who frequent the place like sparrow-hawks to prey upon their victims. All my inquiries in this direction, however, proved futile; many had seen them together, but no one could give me any information respecting the young fellow.

      At length I got hold of the man who had seen the companion of the deceased jump from the cab in Stretford Road. He informed me that, whilst standing near Lipton's shop, the cab passed him going towards Stretford. Just after it passed a man put his hand out of one of the windows, opened the cab door, put his foot on the step, and dropped off as the cab was going. After reaching the footpath the man turned back towards All Saints' Church, and he, thinking that the man was cheating the cabman out of his fare, called after the cab, which was stopped, and he then proceeded to assist the cabman in trying to arouse the deceased, who, he said, was in a very drunken condition. The only fresh information gathered from this was the direction which the companion of the deceased had taken after he had jumped from the cab.

      On the 1st of March the coroner's inquest was held at the Coroner's Court, John Street, before Mr. Sidney Smelt, deputy-coroner for the city. "By the virtue of a warrant," so the document began, which, authorised and issued under the hand and seal of Her Majesty's Coroner, and signed by the Chief Constable, required you to personally appear in a certain Court, on a given date, and there to inquire on Her Majesty's behalf into the death of the deceased paper maker. The reader may have received such a document before, and have responded to the request expressed in it, in which case, probably, he will feel like the Yankee who confessed that he had tasted "biled crow," but couldn't say that he hankered after it. This feeling will be intensified if it should happen that such a document should be presented at an inconvenient season, say, for instance, when you have made preparations to go away for a holiday, in which case the prospect of having to view dead bodies when you had hoped to view landscapes will doubtless cause a feeling of dissatisfaction. If the consciousness of having had greatness and responsibility thrust upon you should have the effect of lifting you up in your own esteem, such self-satisfaction will be qualified when you read in the summons that you must not fail to appear at your peril, and that you are not to depart without leave. In one sense, then, you are both a judge and a prisoner.

      When the day comes the coroner opens the proceedings by reciting to you the authority by which he holds the inquiry, and informs you that he is there as the deputy of the gentleman whose name appears on the summons, and who, it seems, is unavoidably absent. From this you learn. that a coroner's duties may be performed vicariously — a privilege which, doubtless, you will be inclined to regret is not extended to his jurymen.

      "But is this law?" asks the second gravedigger in the tragedy of "Hamlet," and the first gravedigger replies, "Ay, marry, it's crowner's quest law," and as the original proposition which gave rise to the question is in the form of a platitude, we may assume Shakespere found coroners' courts as pretentious and ridiculous in his day as too often they are in our own. The original Coroner's Act of Edward the First, which gave an appointed official the right to inquire into the causes of sudden death within his jurisdiction, was no doubt at that comparatively lawless period an eminently necessary piece of legislation. Nor has the law ceased to be useful even in the present time. In remote districts the inevitable coroner's inquiry, which is sure to follow any and every case of sudden and violent death, is a precautionary measure for the safety of the lieges; it acts as a deterrent against crime, and assists criminal courts in arriving at just verdicts. But it is felt that in cities and large towns the coroner's court is but an expensive and withal fussy ante-chamber to the justice room of the stipendiary magistrate, and that some alteration is needed in the conduct of its inquiries. The double investigation which now takes place before the coroner and the magistrate, in cases where a person is accused of crime in relation to a sudden death, is a needless waste of public and private time, money, and convenience.

      Nothing new transpired at this inquest. The landlady of the Three Arrows spoke to the deceased being at that house about a quarter before seven on the night of the occurrence with a young man, but she could neither describe the young gentleman's appearance nor tell whether the deceased was wearing a watch and chain. Other witnesses bore out the details already given. The deputy-coroner thought it would be a waste of time to hear the evidence of the Infirmary doctors without the evidence of Mr. Estcourt, the city analyst, whom he had ordered to analyse the stomach, because it might be that the deceased had died from natural causes, and the inquiry was adjourned to the 4th of March.

      Public excitement was on the increase, and, meantime, from inquiries made in the neighbourhood of All Saints, I found that a young man somewhat answering the description given had paid a visit to a beerhouse in Higher Chatham Street, called the York Minster. Here I learnt that this young man was dressed in a darkish-brown check coat and waistcoat, that after drinking a glass of soda-water and milk he asked the landlord to change some coppers for him, and he assenting, the young fellow pulled a handful of gold, silver, and copper coins from his pocket, out of which he picked two shillings worth of copper, for which he was given a two shilling piece. He was also wearing a very valuable gold watch, and said that he was a stranger in the town, having just come from London: After staying for a little time he sent for a cab, and drove away.

      Feeling sure I was on the right track, I hunted up the cabman who had taken the youth away from the house, and having found him, I ascertained that he had driven him to the Locomotive Inn, Oldham Road, a noted house for pugilists. At first he rode on the box with the driver, but the night being cold he began to shiver, and got inside, and the cabman, while standing, spoke to a police sergeant whom he knew. The driver also described the watch and guard which the young man was wearing, and it corresponded with that given of the watch and chain belonging to the deceased gentleman.

      Proceeding to the Locomotive Inn, I was again baffled, for they knew nothing whatever of the young man. I now began to consider the case seriously, for it became evident that if this young man was to be arrested I should have to rely chiefly on my own judgment. It appeared that his visit to the Locomotive Inn pointed to his being connected in some way or other with the pugilistic fraternity, and I began to ask myself if I knew of anyone connected with the ring who answered the descriptions given of the man. At length my suspicions rested on the son of a fighting man, who went by the pseudonym of "Pig Jack," who was then residing in the neighbourhood of the Locomotive Inn, and who had previously kept a beerhouse in Greengate, Salford, which had been the resort of pugilists, racecourse thieves, and such like characters. Rumour had it that when Jack kept this beerhouse he was in the habit of drugging his customers by putting some substance into their beer, and that he even drugged the water used for washing out the mouths of the opponents of the men whom he and his party backed in prize fights. As these men, although always ready to rob others, objected to the same process being performed upon themselves, "Pig Jack's" customers gradually fell off, and he was at length compelled to give up the house. What so likely that the son had learned this drugging propensity at home? The more I thought of the matter, the more I felt convinced that I was on the right track, and at length I determined to arrest him.

      I ascertained that the lad was living with his parents in Cornwall Street, Oldham Road, not far from the Locomotive Inn, and going thither I found that I was too late; the birds had flown two days before. On further inquiry I learned that the family had removed to 12, Moor Street, Rochdale Road, and at half-past twelve on the morning of the 2nd of March, I, in company with detective officers and Inspector Wilson, went to the house and apprehended the prisoner. He was in bed, and in the room were five or six other persons. I told him that I was going to take him into custody on suspicion, that he had better be very cautious about what he said, or had better not say anything until we saw whether he was identified. He got up and dressed, and we took him to the detective offices. The next morning I placed him with seven men, and he was identified by the cabman as being the person whom he drove with the deceased gentleman from the Cathedral Steps to the Three Arrows and to Stretford Road, where the accused jumped out of the cab. The cabman who drove him from the beerhouse in Higher Chatham Street to the Locomotive Inn picked him out from the same number of men. He was also identified by the woman who lived at the beerhouse, who saw him place the money on the table; by a man to whom he gave sixpence to fetch a cab; by the sergeant to whom the cabman had spoken when driving him to the Locomotive Inn; and by the police officer who saw him enter the cab with the deceased gentleman at Oliver Cromwell's monument. I then charged him with having stolen from the person of the deceased gentleman a gold watch and chain of the value of one hundred and twenty pounds, and a sum of money, the amount of which was then unknown. He replied that he had been to a coursing meeting and was at home before six o'clock. The same day he was brought before Mr. Headlam, the stipendiary magistrate, and the evidence as given before the coroner being repeated, and the witnesses having identified the prisoner, he was remanded for further inquiries, and to await the result of the coroner's inquest and the post-mortem examination.

      We had previously received a communication from the Liverpool police that a young man was wanted for the theft of a bottle containing one pound of chloral, which he had stolen from a shop in that city. Whoever has done this, I reasoned, knows the use to which chloral can be put. Then I was strongly impressed by the fact that the prisoner, Charles Parton, said that he had been at a coursing meeting in the neighbourhood of Liverpool, and should he be the offender, there would at once be an explanation of his possession of the poison. I sought an interview with the chemist at Liverpool, and he informed me that on the 19th of February previous a young man entered his shop and asked for forty grains of chloral, but he refused to let him have it without a medical man's prescription, upon which the customer begged for ten grains, stating that his mother was suffering from angina pectoris, and that he was known to the chemist's assistant. At length the chemist consented to let him have ten grains, and a he was weighing it, the young man leaned over the counter, picked up the bottle, which contained a pound of chloral, and ran away with it. The description he gave of the offender agreed with that of Parton, and on being brought to Manchester, he identified him as the man. Whilst this web was being woven round the prisoner, other matters came to light.

      I have already referred to the type of characters frequenting the old Market Place in Manchester. In some of the public-houses in the neighbourhood, what is called a "free and easy" is held. The rooms are generally crammed to suffocation, and there is some difficulty in obtaining a seat. The atmosphere is most vile; everyone smokes, and how anyone can sing in such a place is surprising. If you will look round you will find that the company is composed of all kinds of people, from the "grave and reverend seignior" to the beardless youth. All have glasses of something to drink before them, and the waiters ply their trade briskly.

      A young man sits at one end of the room playing a piano, whilst another who sits near him acts as chairman. After a tune the chairman gets up and announces that Mr. So-and-So "will oblige," at which the company expresses its pleasure by knocking the glasses on the table. Mr. So-and-So now takes his stand near the pianist, and, after humming over the air to him, treats his audience to one of those patriotic songs which hurl defiance at the foreigner. The chorus is enthusiastically taken up by the audience, for be it known that our young artisans, who have not yet had time to form their political opinions, are jingoes of the deepest dye.

      From an intellectual point of view there is nothing very elevating about the performance; but this is not intended. Large salaries are realised by men and women who contrive with scarcely an effort to gratify the tastes of that portion of the public which frequents these places. Many ingenious individuals can earn more money by blacking their faces than many a barrister or physician can make by the laborious pursuit of his learned calling. Anyone who is able to sing a comic song, and accompany it with appropriate contortions of visage, seems to be on the highway to prosperity. The closer a man or a woman can imitate a negro minstrel or an idiot, the more certain is he or she of popularity.

      The songs of these music rooms are the most arrant nonsense ever concocted; yet people crowd day after day to hear them. The singers, especially the women, are rather commonplace or extremely bad, and for months do not make the least alteration in their repertoire. The woman who was squalling "Maggie Murphy's Home" 12 months ago is probably doing so now with a voice not improved by constant exercise in a hot and stifling atmosphere. No torture to the cultivated ear can be greater than that of listening to the music-hall "star," and I am inclined to think that the ears which can take delight in such music must be very long ones, and that there is another and kindred music that would just suit them as well.

      If, however, the serious element in these performances is painful to the educated man, the comic must be detestable beyond description. The buffoonery of some of the comic singers approaches as nearly as possible downright imbecility. What people can find to laugh at in these compositions must often have puzzled many persons. There is a good deal of exhibition of the "human form divine" about the arms and busts of the lady artistes, but "to the pure all things are pure." Strange to say, the most popular of the singers, as certainly the most objectionable and offensive, are the female comiques. They have only to adorn their faces with a beard or moustache, or wear their dresses without being particular as to the length, to be sure of encores. To see a fat woman waddle about the stage in a long beard and a short dress is a spectacle the charms of which must be inscrutable to those who have not been partially reared in music halls. The concert hall of the public-house is lower in standard than that of the music hall, simply because there vice and ribaldry are often undisguised. The thin veil assumed by the female comique is dropped. The consequence is that these places are left to young clerks, warehousemen, apprentices out for a holiday, stragglers from the country who fancy they are witnessing every phase of city life, and hawks who are on the look-out for pigeons to pluck.

      About half-past nine on the evening of the 8th January, 1889, a grocer from Ashton-under-Lyne walked into one of these places, seeking a little recreation after the toils of the day. He had every confidence in himself, could resist temptation, was not likely to be allured by any tempting bait, and, though he had had a few glasses of something to drink during the afternoon, he felt himself a match for every stranger who might tackle him. He knew "a thing or two," and prided himself on being "as fly as they make 'em." He would be a clever fellow who took him down. So reasoned our grocer on pleasure bent, and whether he was right or not the sequel will show.

      As he entered the room a gentleman in the blackest of black coats, plenty of shirt front, white kid gloves, and a good deal of Birmingham jewellery was treating the audience to a song about the "Raging Main." After he had finished, and the rattling of glasses upon the table with which the audience signified their applause was ended, our worthy grocer was addressed by a young stranger who sat near him.

      "Good song, that, guv'nor."

      "Rayther," answered the careful grocer, as he turned his eyes on the person addressing him.

      "I like to hear a song like that; it reminds me of the sea, and I have a brother a sailor," continued the young man.

      "Indeed?" was the reply.

      "Yes, and I am rather fond of the sea myself; but I am just going to have another glass. Will you have one?"

      Now, our country grocer could see no objection in having a glass at the young stranger's expense. What could he, a man of the world, have to fear from such an inexperienced child as that, so he replied in the affirmative, and ordered "a small Scotch."

      The audience was now treated to one of those old ditties which seem so well adapted in these days to draw money from the pockets of soft-headed people. Whatever defects there were in the music, the touching and exciting nature of the song — of course the theme was the difficulties of two lovers, ending in a solemn tragedy — was certain of an attentive and appreciative audience, and many handkerchiefs were called into requisition by the female members of the audience before the story was completed.

      "Sup up, guv'nor, and have another," said the innocent young man to his companion, as the song ended. "I am glad our old woman's not here," he continued, as the grocer complied with his request.

      "Why? Would she paddle you for taking too much?" dryly remarked the man of the world.

      "Oh, no; it's not that. You see, now, our old woman can never hear a song of that sort without breaking her heart, and when I sees her shedding tears, it sets me agate too."

      "I like you all the better for that," replied the elderly gentleman. "It shows that you have a tender heart, and some respect for the parent who bore you."

      "That is so, guv'nor. I have a heart as soft as a pancake. I can't bear to see anything suffer; and as for our old woman, I should like to see them that would touch her; but here comes a singer that all the mashers are sweet on."

      The latter remark was made in reference to one of the female singers, whose charms, rouge, and flake had fascinated a number of young mashers, who had been treating her pretty liberally. Is it not a beautiful sight to see a row of these young prætorians, with their faultless gloves and exquisitely appointed flower, cudgelling their brains over the libretto of the "Ten Little Niggers"?

      There sits a thing with pasty cheeks and effeminate habits, that wastes whole days evolving new neckties to suit its complexion. When it enters lavender or musk impregnates the air. It has not one of the vices of a man. Sympathy it has none, except with its tailor. The one great problem of its life is how to shape its pantaloons.

      There sits another individual of the masher type. He may be recognised by his curly hair, his baby lisp, his semi-idiotic grin, his huge cuffs, and, above all, by his never-failing accoutrements — an eyeglass and a stick. Between the latter implement, the proportions of which are of the daintiest possible, and himself there is a mysterious link of sympathy, springing, it may be, from the mutual consciousness of a common stock.

      Near the masher sits young Mumbo-jumbo. Because the office in which he is employed deals in nothing but figures the solemn young coxcomb affects the airs of a man of business. There is a pretence of mathematical precision about his dress and habits. He is always deep in the confidence of his chief, shakes his head in a very mysterious manner, and knows what firms are going wrong long before they know themselves.

      But here comes the sweet songstress, and we soon find that she has only about three notes, two at the top and one at the bottom of the scale, which we hear alternately amidst the uproarious applause of her fascinated mashers below. As for the elevating influence of the poetry sung by the sweet creature, here is a specimen of the chorus taken up by her enthusiastic admirers:—

He doesn't know how to kiss me, He doesn't know how to tease me, He doesn't know how to cuddle me, He doesn't know how to squeeze me. But he is such a nice young man, I won't send him away; And all I want for him to do Is to name the wedding day.

      Of course, when this happy consummation is brought about, the chorus is altered to "he does know how," &c.

      "Well, what do you think about that, guv'nor?" asked the young innocent of the grocer, after the applause had subsided, and the announcement was made that the lady "would oblige again." "Fine girl, isn't she?"

      "Well, hoo's not much amiss," replied the countryman; "but, after aw', I dunno see what theer's about her to tak' aw' them young foo's in."

      "No," replied young hopeful, "I should put my money to some better use than spend it on a woman I know nothing about, and might never see again."

      "That's reet, young mon; tak' care of th' brass; tha might want it some day."

      "I mean to do, father; but as she's going to sing again, you had better sup up — this is yours."

      At the same time he handed to the grocer a glass of whisky, which the latter drank, and after a fit of coughing, the result of the drink, remarked, "By gum, young mon, that's hot; tha's not put much wayter in it; but I'll pay this time."

      The glasses were replenished. The songstress once more appeared, and sang a song with a chorus commencing "Money is the root of all evil."

      "Now," said our young philosopher, at the end of the song, "I don't agree with that; do you, guv'nor?"

      "What's that?"

      "Why, that money is the root of all evil."

      "That depends how you use it."

      "Perhaps it does; but it's a bigger evil to be without it."

      "No doubt that's a bad thing; but, young fellow, don't you think this whisky's stronger than we've been supping?"

      "No, I don't think so; sup it up and have another. Perhaps it is your mouth."

      "Perhaps it is," replied the old fellow, as he bottomed the glass, and his youthful friend ordered it to be replenished.

      "What I say is this," continued the young philosopher; "if the lady that sung that song had to earn her living at the wash-tub, like our old woman, instead of getting it as easy as she does, and had no swells to treat her, she'd know something about money. Now, don't you think that the boot's on the other leg, and that woman's the root of all evil?"

      "True," said the old gentleman, shaking his head ominously, probably with some thoughts of what might await him at home; "a vicious woman's a dangerous thing."

      The curly-headed masher, however, who heard his charmer compared to a washerwoman, cast upon the speaker one withering glance of contempt, and walked away buttoning his gloves, while the darling stick was suspended under his left arm.

      "They are that," replied young precocious; "our old woman's a demon when she starts."

      "Is she now? But hand me the wayter bottle; this whisky's d——d strong," replied his companion.

      "I don't think so; you must be getting boozed, guv'nor."

      "Not I. I can drink twenty yet; but it does not suit my palate."

      "Well, let's go somewhere else; there's a first-class pub close to."

      This was agreed to, and, drinking up, the two sallied forth arm-in-arm. The country grocer was a fine stout old fellow of between fifty and sixty, and his companion. a young stripling of about eighteen, and anyone meeting them might have taken them for father and son.

      "Mind what you're doing," said the younger one, as they were entering another public-house; "there's always a lot of sharps about here."

      "I'm weight for aw' that sort," replied the old man. "You'll see I'll tak' care o' myself."

      It was about half-past ten when the two newly-made friends entered the second public-house, and here they remained until closing time, when young innocent volunteered to see his friend to Victoria Railway Station.

      Alas! for the frailty of human nature. Our strong-minded grocer, who "knew a thing or two," and was well able to take care of himself, remembered leaving the house with his young friend, but as to what occurred afterwards his mind was a complete blank, until he awakened the next morning in a strange and dismal place, which he found to be a police cell.

      On making inquiries he found that he had been locked up for being drunk and incapable, that some charitable young fellow, who had found him sitting on some steps beastly drunk in Todd Street, had been kind enough to procure for him a cab, which he ordered to drive to the Wheat Sheaf, in Oldham Road, getting in at the same time, to take care of the poor old gentleman, but had mysteriously disappeared on the way, leaving the object of his charity with his pockets turned inside out. The cabman, not being able to rouse him, had sought the aid of a policeman, who had driven him to the police station, whence he had been sent to the Infirmary, where they at first thought he had been poisoned by opium, but after applying the stomach pump came to the conclusion that he was only beastly drunk, and had sent him back to the lock-ups, so that he was shortly to have the pleasure of appearing before the magistrates to explain his conduct, — so becoming to a respectable, staid old gentleman, without having a single penny in his pocket to pay his fine.

      "But my watch and guard?" stammered the gentleman who "knew a thing or two."

      "We know nothing of it; you had no watch and guard when you were brought here."

      "But I was wearing it at closing time last night, and had between three and four pounds in my pocket."

      "It was all gone, sir, by the time you arrived here; in fact, it would seem that you were driving about without the means of paying the cabman his fare."

      "Why did not the cabman drive me home?"

      "To the Wheat Sheaf, Oldham Road, sir?"

      "Oh, dear, no; I know nothing of the Wheat Sheaf."

      "That's where the cabman was ordered to drive, sir."

      "Oh, dear, oh, dear; riding about in a cab without money — pockets turned inside out — watch and guard missing — Infirmary — stomach pump — police cell — magistrates — no money to pay fine — scandal — got to face wife — truly, truly, Sammy, tha's larnt a thing or two at last. Oh, my young friend, 'money is the root of all evil'; th' young woman's reet, and, by gum! I'm feared I shall find out, when I get whoam, that 'a vicious woman is a dangerous thing,' my lad, too.

      "What a nice owd hoary-headed sinner I am, to be telling that young innocent to tak' care o' his brass, when I cannot tak' care of mi own. The young scamp, to call me fayther, and talk about his mother, and then send me flying about th' teawn wi' my pockets picked. Keep out of my road, young hopeful, for if I lay my hands on thee I'll break every bone in thi body.

      "Well, well, Sammy, tha's get theysel into a pretty mess, by gum; that whisky must have been strung."

      Mr. Samuel was brought up before the magistrates and fined 10s. 6d. and costs, or fourteen days, and departed for his home a sadder but a wiser man. Time, however, brought its revenge. One morning the attention of Mr. Samuel was called to the case against the prisoner Parton, and it bore out such a strong resemblance to his own that he felt convinced that the prisoner was the "nice young man" who had been the cause of his difficulties. "Well, my lad," he ruminated, "tha's done it once too often. Money with thee appears to be the root of all evil still; but the little game's stopped for a bit. Then it wasn't whisky, after aw'. I were drugged, were I? By Jingo! I've had a narrow escape; perhaps the stomach pump saved my life. Who knows? But it's too bad to fine a fellow for being drunk when he were poisoned. I wonder if I can get that foine back? — but I'll goo and see whether they've got th' reet mon."

      Mr. Samuel came to the Detective Office, and with much apparent satisfaction picked out Parton, with the exclamation, "Oh, that's him; tak' him away." He afterwards reminded Mr. Headlam, the stipendiary magistrate, when giving evidence before him on the case, that he had been fined in the same court for being drunk and incapable when in reality he was not drunk, but drugged; but we are inclined to think that he did not recover the fine.

      These startling revelations tended to increase the interest felt in the case, to which there appeared to be no end, for no sooner had one matter been investigated than another cropped up. It was now found that on the 28th of December in the previous year, a railway porter named Parkey came to Manchester from Ashton-under-Lyne, where he met a friend, and they went to the Wheat Sheaf Hotel, in High Street. After staying there some time they set out for London Road Station. While passing the White Bear, in Piccadilly, the prisoner and his brother came out. The latter seemed to have known Parkey's friend, and they all entered into conversation, which ended in the four young men going into a public-house close by.

      While there they all had some drink, when Parkey and the prisoner began to quarrel about boxing, upon which the brother of the prisoner asked the companion of Parkey to leave them to themselves, and they would soon settle it, whilst they went and had a drink elsewhere. When they came back they found Parkey in a state of stupor, and the prisoner assisting him into a cab at the door. On Parkey's companion inquiring how this condition of things had been brought about, the prisoner accounted for it by saying that Parkey had been round the corner with some woman and had been drugged, though Parkey afterwards denied having left the house, and his statement was borne out by the waiter.

      His friend took him in the cab to his own house, and when he recovered in the morning it was found that he had been robbed of his watch and guard, and all his money was gone.

      When the final stage in the police-court proceedings was reached the excitement was intense. Long before the opening of the court every available seat was occupied in the lower gallery, and the one above, in which no sitting accommodation is provided, was most inconveniently packed with persons who remained standing during the five and a half hours the case was in progress.

      The prisoner, on taking his place in the dock, was provided with a chair, from which he gazed attentively at the witnesses, and seemed to realise the serious nature of the charges made against him. He listened to the evidence with the closest attention, and when, later in the day, the cases of Parkey and the Ashton-under-Lyne grocer were presented to the Court, he conversed frequently with his solicitor, Mr. Burton.

      He was accused in the first place of the murder of Mr. J‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑ F‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑, paper manufacturer, of Manchester, by administering chloral hydrate to him, and of stealing from him a gold watch and gold chain valued at over £100, and of administering chloral to him for the purpose of committing a robbery. Other charges were also made against him of having drugged and robbed the other two men.

      The presiding magistrate was Mr. F. J. Headlam, the stipendiary. Mr. W. Cobbett appeared to prosecute, Mr. Burton defended the prisoner, and Mr. W. L. Hockin watched the case on behalf of the relatives of the deceased.

      Evidence was produced to bear out the statements already made, more witnesses were called to identify the prisoner as the person who was in the company of the deceased on the evening of his death, and the post-mortem went to show that death resulted from the administration of hydrate of chloral. Mr. Burton tried to shake the medical testimony, but the evidence in the case taken altogether was too strong for him, and the prisoner was committed to take his trial at the Liverpool Assizes on the charge of wilful murder. He was also committed on the coroner's warrant.

      In the interval between the committal and the trial certain things came to my knowledge which induced me to look for a porter who was said to have been in the Three Arrows when the deceased and the prisoner were there. During the course of my inquiries for this person I came across a gentleman whose appearance struck me as bearing a great resemblance to the description of the person I wanted, and I at once questioned him. He was engaged as book-keeper for a firm not far from the Three Arrows, and, in answer to my inquiries as to whether he was in the above public-house when the deceased and the prisoner were there, he reluctantly admitted that he was, and, on being pressed, he stated that the two were in conversation, and that he saw the prisoner with a small phial in his hand, and, taking up his own glass of beer and holding the bottle over it, poured some fluid from it into the beer. The prisoner then picked up the two glasses, and, after looking at them, put them again on the table. He called the landlady's attention to the matter, and asked her whether she knew the people, and she answered "Yes."

      The landlady, however, stated that she thought he was referring to some one else. He excused himself for not coming forward in the first instance on the ground that he did not wish to be mixed up with the case. He thought it might be medicine or something to moderate the effects of the beer they were drinking, and no suspicion crossed his mind until he saw the account in the public prints of this extraordinary inquiry.

      Mr. Justice Charles, in charging the grand jury at the Liverpool Assizes, referred to the case as a "singular one," and true bills were returned against the prisoner on all the indictments.

      Extraordinary interest was now manifested in the case. On the morning of the trial, for some time before the court opened, a considerable crowd had gathered upon the steps and in the vicinity of St. George's Hall, and there was much pressure on the doors of the Crown Court being opened.

      When the prisoner was placed in the dock he pleaded "Not Guilty," and though he outwardly maintained an air of calmness, and even unconcern, it was evident that he was paying deep attention to the proceedings.

      The counsel for the prosecution were Mr. C. H. Hopwood, Q.C., Recorder of Liverpool, Mr. Shee, and Mr. Smelt; and the prisoner was defended by Mr. C. P. McKeand and two other barristers. Mr. Overend Evans watched the proceedings on behalf of the relatives of the deceased.

      Mr. Hopwood, in opening the case for the prosecution, said that the jury were about to undertake an inquiry of a very painful character, and it was impossible to keep from their minds the fact that the case required very close attention. He cautioned the jury against yielding to any preconceived notions with regard to the facts of the case, and he was quite sure that whatever might have occurred to their minds would be readily forgotten when they were determining the value of the evidence. He then went on to sketch the history of the case, commencing with the arrival of the deceased in Manchester on the morning of his death, his visit to the Mitre Hotel, and his afterwards being in company with the prisoner. He then traced their journey in the cab to the Three Arrows, dwelt upon the new and important evidence of the book-keeper, and described the journey to Stretford Road, and the disappearance of the prisoner from the cab, the object being, if the suspicions of the prosecution were well founded, to obtain a sufficiently long cab drive under an excuse to enable the prisoner to perpetrate the robbery with which he was charged. Continuing the history, Mr. Hopwood followed every incident in the case, until the body of the deceased was lodged in the Infirmary. He pointed out the theft of the chloral at Liverpool, where the prisoner asked for ten grains, on the plea that his mother was suffering from angina pectoris, and mentioned here a coincidence that might be useful in the eyes of the jury in connection with this disease, which was a medical term that did not often come within the range of people in the prisoner's class of life. It was a remarkable fact that the prisoner's father was treated at the Manchester Infirmary for angina pectoris; hence it might be that the prisoner had learned the term, and associated it with the administration of chloral. The learned counsel carried the narrative even further, and traced the doings of the prisoner after his flight from the cab on the night of the murder, his visit to the beerhouse in Higher Chatham Street, where he was in possession of a very valuable gold watch, which, from the description given of it, resembled that of the deceased. He also commented on the circumstance that when he asked for a cab, and was told that he could obtain one at All Saints, a short distance away, he declared that he did not know the place, having just come from London.; The proprietor of the house described the prisoner as "flabbergasted," and the cabman who drove him from the house said he was "shaky," and, of course, proceeded Mr. Hopwood, if he had left the deceased in a state of collapse from the administration of a drug, he might be "shaky" afterwards. After speaking on the medical evidence, and the identification of the prisoner, the learned counsel proceeded to call witnesses.

      The evidence having been adduced as already given, the evidence of the book-keeper who had not previously been before the Court was taken, and this being extremely important, he was subjected to a severe cross-examination. Firstly, for the purpose of showing he was not speaking the truth. Secondly, that it was not chloral that was put into the beer. Thirdly, on his mysterious conduct in not stating what he had seen before my visit to him, and how that visit came about.

      His evidence in the main was not shaken. He could give no explanation whatever as to how I obtained the information which led me to visit him, and admitted that he should never have come forward in the case unless I had found him out, pleading that he had his own interests to look after, and he did not wish it to be known that he was taking a social glass in a public-house. On the second point, upon pressure, the witness said he thought the fluid poured from the bottle was of a yellow colour, whereas chloral is colourless. Mr. Hopwood, however, in reviewing the evidence, pointed out that the appearance of a crystal fluid, or substance like water, in juxtaposition with a glass of beer, would reflect that colour, and would present the impression of a yellowish fluid.

      Mr. McKeand, in addressing the jury, appealed largely to their feelings. He dwelt upon the enormity of the crime with which the prisoner was charged, and pointed out that it was for them to say once for all, whether the man was to go back to freedom and liberty, or to go in the grey of an April morning to the scaffold to die." In his opinion, it was one of the most important cases tried for a number of years, and it was a matter of vital importance, not only to the prisoner, but to society at large, because, if the story for the prosecution was true, it was a terrible thing to suppose we had in our midst, and in great cities like Liverpool and Manchester, scoundrels going about armed with poisonous drugs, which they employed to rob and plunder drunken men, who in that condition fell easy victims to them. It was of the greatest importance, therefore, that in that particular instance they should be satisfied beyond doubt, first, that the young man had administered chloral to Mr. F‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑ and, secondly, that Mr. F‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑ died in consequence of that administration.

      Referring to the natural facts of the case, the learned counsel analysed the evidence that had been adduced by the prosecution, and pointed out as a circumstance, strongly in prisoner's favour, that he had gone with the deceased to the Three Arrows public-house, which was usually very full, and he asked the jury to consider whether, if it had been in the prisoner's mind to have drugged him, he would have chosen such a house. "There were hundreds of public-houses," continued the learned counsel, "quiet little places, where, had he been so minded, he would have taken the deceased and perpetrated the outrage upon him without the chance of being detected, and without the chance of being seen by a single soul, except the person who might have served them with beer." Commenting on the evidence of the book-keeper, he admitted that if the jury believed it, it was absolutely conclusive against the prisoner, and there was an end to his case; but it often happened that persons led away by excitement said they saw things which they did not see, and that, having made statements which they did not like to contradict, they believed that their statements were not material. As to the Liverpool chemist, he had only seen the man who stole the chloral for half a moment, and might well have been mistaken. Turning to the medical evidence, he suggested that the deceased died from alcoholic and not from chloral poisoning, or that the actual cause of death was left so much in doubt that they were entitled to give the benefit of that doubt to the prisoner. They ought to receive the medical evidence with a great deal of care and caution, and having regard to the fact that this was the first case in which a criminal prosecution had taken place, for chloral poisoning, it would not be right to rely upon the mere theories of medical men. In the consideration of their verdict, they ought to remember that there were grave and terrible charges made against the prisoner for which he had been indicted, and that if he was acquitted of murder, he would not go from the dock scot free. "The case," continued the learned counsel, "has been called 'The mystery of a four-wheeled cab,' and it had been rightly called, because from first to last it had been enveloped in perfect clouds of mystery and doubt, which they were asked that day to unravel. He urged them to say, and to tell the public by their verdict, that they had swept and dashed on one side all the clouds of mystery and doubt in which the deceased man's death was involved, and that they had sent the prisoner forth once again, as far as this terrible charge was concerned, to liberty and life.

      The Judge commenced to sum up to the jury shortly after noon on the second day. He said that the question they had to consider was one of the gravest importance to the public. He was bound to tell the jury that if the prosecution had made out to their satisfaction that the prisoner did administer a stupefying drug to the deceased with the intention of robbing him, and if, further, the effect of that stupefying drug was to kill the deceased, or materially contribute to his death, then the prisoner was guilty beyond all doubt of wilful murder. With the consequences of such a verdict they had nothing to do. It might be a sad thing to pronounce a verdict of guilty against a young man like the prisoner, but they must not shrink from performing their duty if they were of opinion that guilt had been brought home to him. If they had any doubt as to whether chloral caused the death of the deceased, the prisoner should have the benefit of the doubt. The duty had now passed from the Bar to them. It so far had been admirably discharged. The prosecution had been placed before them with perfect fairness, and the defence with admirable judgment. At one time it seemed very likely they would have a have a very very grave and embarrassing question to consider, and that was whether the young man who got into the cab with the deceased was or was not the prisoner at the Bar; but the evidence produced on the part of the prosecution of witness after witness soon convinced the prisoner's counsel that it was useless to struggle against the identity of the young man.

      A young man who was seen to get into a cab with the deceased at twenty-five minutes past seven was seen exhibiting at twenty-five past eight property which had no doubt been stolen from the deceased at the York Minster public-house. Then they had to settle the question-Did the deceased die of alcohol poisoning alone, or did he die of chloral poisoning, or a combination of alcohol and chloral? If their minds were left in doubt they ought to acquit the prisoner. As the learned counsel for the defence had contended, probabilities were what they had to act upon; but it would never do to indulge in speculation about possibilities when the evidence given in a case pointed to a highly probable solution.

      If the deceased died of alcoholic poisoning alone they would be justified in acquitting the prisoner; but if they thought he died of chloral poisoning, and that the prisoner administered the chloral, then they certainly ought to convict him. If the unfortunate man died from a combination of alcohol and chloral, and the chloral was administered by the prisoner, then, however painful it might be, it was their duty to find the prisoner guilty.

      His Lordship then proceeded to review the medical evidence, pointing out that there was a unanimity of opinion as to the result of the post-mortem examination, also that the prisoner had possessed himself of some chloral a week previous, and therefore they had the facts that the prisoner had chloral, that he was in the Three Arrows, and that he there administered the drug to the deceased.

      The jury retired to consider their verdict at half-past one, and after an absence of twenty minutes returned with a verdict of murder, and accompanied it with a strong recommendation to mercy on account of the prisoner's youth.

      While the sentence of death was being passed the prisoner convulsively clutched the front rail of the dock, but showed no other outward sign of emotion.

      The public interest in this remarkable trial continued unabated until the close, and the desire of the general public to gain entrance to the court to witness the closing scenes was unmistakable. As a result the approaches to the court were thronged throughout the day, and the police had an arduous duty in regulating admission. The court was uncomfortably crowded, and it was noticed that there was an unusual number of ladies present. The prisoner wore a remarkable air of coolness throughout the trial, but as the end drew near he evidently became nervous and despondent. The considerable interest which had been taken throughout the country in the case was evidenced in the Press comments.

---

      The Manchester Courier, in an article on the subject, said: "Great credit is due to the Chief Constable of Manchester and his excellent lieutenant, Chief Detective-Inspector Caminada, for the thoroughness with which they had succeeded in unravelling what, at the time, was regarded as a serious outrage. It would have been a sad thing if the murderer had escaped detection. The crime was of so secret and so subtle a character that failure on the part of the police would have been followed by more or less alarm among the inhabitants, and the exceedingly clever manner in which the various links in the chain of evidence which brought the offence home to Parton have been produced will have the effect not only of restoring confidence, but of assuring the public that the guilt of the culprit has been incontestably established. The whole business — the crime, the capture, the trial, and the sentence of death — has been accomplished in about three weeks. The miserable culprit was a prominent figure amongst 'fast' young men. He had acquired some skill as a boxer; and the loose habits that skill induced, and the disreputable company into which it brought him, blunted his moral nature and made him a thief. Such people can be spared, and it is to be regretted that they cannot be got rid of until they have inflicted irreparable mischief upon society. However, it is satisfactory to know that what has been called the 'Manchester Cab Mystery' has been solved."

      The London Daily Telegraph said: "In the case of the so-called 'Manchester Cab Mystery,' the old adage 'Murder will out,' of late so frequently controverted by the recurrent impunity of undetected assassins, has been triumphantly verified. The knowledge that atrocious criminals — such as the perpetrator of the Whitechapel butcheries, for instance — have succeeded in evading discovery for many months and are still at liberty (in all probability rubbing shoulders daily with well-conducted and law-abiding persons), is heavily fraught with mortification to the people of a civilised country.

      Experience has repeatedly proved within the last few years that the mechanism at the disposal of our Home Office is not always adequate to the fulfilment of the objects it has been specially organised to achieve. That it should show itself equal to its task in bringing the murderer of Mr. J‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑ F‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑ to trial with laudable promptitude is really a subject for public self-congratulation. Just three weeks yesterday have elapsed since the tragedy, and yesterday the person accused of the murder was found guilty and sentenced to death. The crime to which the unfortunate Manchester gentleman fell a victim presented more than one feature of peculiar vileness. It was the result of a deeply-laid scheme, carefully thought out and put into execution with cold-blooded mercilessness, whilst its motive was a despicably base one. Mr. F‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑ was done to death in order that his slayer might gain possession of his gold watch and chain and the handful of loose money which a man in easy circumstances may, as a rule, be assumed to carry about in his waistcoat and trousers pockets. Nothing transpired in the course of the evidence adduced at the trial of Charles Parton to indicate that this precious miscreant — a mere stripling of eighteen — entertained any animosity towards. the kindly, jovial gentleman whom he deliberately murdered and robbed.

      "Parton's crime had been so ingeniously planned, and, on the whole, was so cleverly executed, that but for two circumstances one attributable to his own imprudence, and the other purely accidental — it might have escaped detection, and he himself might have got off scot free. Mr. F‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑, it appears, was sufficiently given to indulgence in intoxicating liquors to justify the assumption that he had died of alcoholic poisoning, the result of habitual intemperance. As a matter of fact, that was the view taken of the cause of his death by the house surgeon of the Manchester Infirmary, who first examined his body when it was first brought to that institution. Dr. Barker deposed on oath, 'had he not been told by the public analyst that traces of chloral had been found in the corpse he would have formed the opinion, that death was due to alcoholic poisoning.' Dr. Reynolds, another member of the Infirmary medical staff, who took part in the post-mortem examination, stated that the deceased was a bull-necked man, who had undoubtedly consumed a vast amount of ardent spirits, and whose liver was that of an habitual gin drinker 'in an early stage.' Neither he nor his colleague, Dr. Barker, would swear that Mr. F‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑ had not died from alcoholic poisoning. Thus it might have been impossible for the prosecution to prove Parton's guilt despite his suspicious behaviour on the night of the murder — when he sported the spoils of his victim in a Manchester public-house — had not the two circumstances above referred to brought it home to him with fatal directness. The first was his theft of a bottle of chloral from a chemist's shop in Liverpool, just a week before the murder.

      "Possibly the fact that Parton was in possession of a pound of chloral, obtained by nefarious means, at the time when he persuaded Mr. F‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑ to drink and ride in a cab with him, might have been regarded from the strictly legal point of view merely a piece of strong presumptive evidence in his disfavour, considered in conjunction with other incriminating matters that came to light in the course of his trial. All doubt as to his culpability, however, was removed by the testimony of a witness who had held aloof from the magisterial investigations preceding Parton's committal on the capital charge, but who came forward to swear that he had seen the prisoner furtively pour the contents of a phial into one of the two glasses of beer with which Mr. F‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑ and Parton were supplied at the Three Arrows public-house. His evidence practically cleared up the 'Manchester Cab Mystery,' and sealed the fate of Parton."

      The Liverpool Courier said: "What it has been the custom to call the 'Manchester Cab Mystery' is now solved. We do not know what may be the effect of the strong recommendation to mercy on account of the youth of the convict, nor shall we express an opinion on the subject. But it will be admitted that this youth's plan of plunder was as diabolically ingenious as any that could have been devised by the oldest and most hardened criminal. It speaks, indeed, to a precociousness in fiendish arts, thoroughly in keeping with the extraordinary callousness which enabled this abnormal refinement of Bill Sikes to go below and heartily discuss a savoury dinner — being the last that could be provided by his friends — while the jury were deliberating as to his doom. There are not many venerables in the ranks of crime who in the circumstances would have been equal to such a performance. We are not surprised that the ladies in court sobbed when the last dread sentence of the law was passed upon this stripling culprit. It was none the less evident that their emotion was entirely thrown away upon the prisoner, who to the last moment was the cool, self-possessed, callous desperado which his acts, in spite of his years, had proclaimed him to be."

      Immediately on the sentence becoming known, steps were taken by the prisoner's solicitor to give effect to the recommendation of mercy by the jury. Mr. Burton prepared a petition for signature and presentation to the Home Secretary, praying for a commutation of the death sentence. This was numerously signed, and dispatched to London, with one from Liverpool containing 3,500 signatures. In due course a reply came that the request of the petitioners was complied with, and that the sentence would be commuted for one of penal servitude for life, a sentence which the prisoner is still fulfilling.

      Parkey had a lingering illness, and died a few months after Parton's conviction, never having recovered from the effects of the drug administered by Parton.

(THE END)