Vol.
25 No. 3
December
1935
A piercing scream rang
through the Tirrell house in the little village of Weymouth,
Massachusetts. It emanated from the slender
throat of a terror-stricken child, eleven-year-old little Louisa Tirrell, and
was followed by other shrill cries and calls of “Mother! Mother!”
“Don’t scream, Louisa,” remonstrated the dying girl in the
bed beside her. “Get up and wake
father.” She moaned feebly once or
twice, then passed into a violent convulsion succeeding others which had
awakened and frightened the child. She
was Frances Tirrell, twenty-six, the petted
daughter of Wilson Tirrell, the wealthy shoe manufacturer. The child Louisa, who was now crying softly,
too frightened to move, was her half-sister.
It was shortly after nine o’clock on the night of May 3rd,
1860.
The cries had been overheard by a guest in the house, George Hersey, whose room was just across
the hall. He had retired at early
candlelight owing to a violent headache.
Hastily slipping on a dressing gown, he hastened to the bedroom from whence
the cries had proceeded. Bestowing only
a cursory glance at the form thrashing about in a paroxysm of pain, he ran to
the bedroom of Wilson Tirrell.
An imperative knock, then a peremptory summons. “For heaven’s sake, hurry, Mr. Tirrell!” he
shouted. “Frances is in a fit, or
something!”
The slightest intimation that there was anything wrong with
his lovely daughter, Frances, was sufficient to arouse Wilson Tirrell to
immediate action. He bounded out of bed
and ran to her room.
The girl was lying on her left side, her head hanging
grotesquely over the edge of the bed.
He limbs were drawn up, her feet turned inward and her fingernails
inverted into the palms of her hands.
She was a beautiful girl, but now her teeth were clenched and her face
contorted by an unnatural grin. Her
snow-white throat was badly swollen.
“My poor girl!” groaned Tirrell. Gently, embroidered collar of her nightgown, which seemed to be
choking her. He turned to Hersey. “Hitch up the bay mare, George, and get Dr.
Howe here quick as the Lord will let you.”
The slight, girlish figure stirred and the blue eyes opened
as Mrs. Tirrell appeared in the doorway.
What’s the matter?” she asked, sleepily. “I don’t know, but for heaven’s sake do something!” snapped
Tirrell. “Rub her, can’t you? Her
limbs’ are cold and stiff. Can’t you
help any?” The stepmother began
massaging the girl’s arms, which were rigid – inflexible, while her whole body
twitched violently. “Oh, I’m so sick,
so sick, “ she wailed. “Please do
something. Get me some physic or
something.”
She went rapidly from one spasm to another, and then seemed
to relax for a moment. “Kiss me,
father, I’m dying,” she exclaimed, piteously. The doctor will be here in a moment, Frances,” assured Mrs.
Tirrell, soothingly, “Just try to rest a minute.”
Without stopping to divest himself of his greatcoat, the
venerable doctor mounted the stairs and entered the room where the sick girl
lay apparently unconscious. Silently,
he reached for the wrist, then felt the arm above the elbow. Tirrell watched with bated breath as he
pressed his thumb on the carotid artery in the neck, letting his hand drop to
the left breast. He looked up to meet
the agonized gaze of the grief stricken father, too dazed to ask a
question. “She’s gone,” he announced
solemnly.
Tirrell gazed at him through tear-dimmed eyes. He seemed unable to grasp the significance
of the words. Only four months previous
he nineteen-year-old daughter, Mary had passed away. This last blow was the last straw. He couldn’t believe it.
At nine o’clock Frances had bidden him a fond good night and had spoken
of the pleasure he had planned for the morrow – a trip to the circus at Fall
Rive – and now at ten o’clock her spirit had returned to its maker and for her
there could be no tomorrow except in another clime.
“What caused her death, Doctor?” “I don’t know,” responded Dr. Howe, slowly, “the symptoms are
peculiar.” “Probably indigestion,”
suggested Mrs. Tirrell, “she had lobster for supper last night.” The physician looked at her curiously. “No, it wasn’t indigestion,” he said curtly.
“What do the symptoms indicate?” asked Tirrell,
persistently. “I hardly know how to
answer you. I haven’t yet formed an
opinion that I dare express. I think
perhaps it will be well to have an examination.” Tirrell looked startled.
“You mean an autopsy?” he faltered.
“Yes, I think it would be advisable to determine accurately the cause of
death.”
Tirrell was alarmed.
He had lost two children within four months. He began to speculate on the cause. Was it possible, he wondered, if the well water was
contaminated? He choked a little as he
asked anxiously: “Do you think Frances was poisoned, Doctor?” “Well, there are symptoms which indicate
that she may have been.” “You mean
unintentionally poisoned, of course.”
“That isn’t for me to say,” replied the physician gravely. Then he added with a slight show of
irritation, “You’re pressing me too hard, Mr. Tirrell, I expect the autopsy
will tell us a great deal.
“Just one question more, Doctor. Do these symptoms of which you have spoke indicate any particular
poison?” “I think they do. The unusual rigidity of the body, for
instance. Then, as you probably
noticed, the angels of the mouth were drawn up exposing the teeth. It is caused by a spasm of the facial
muscles and is a condition known to the medical profession as risus
sardonicus. I would say that these
conditions are present in strychnine poisoning.”
Tirrell’s face expressed amazement. “There is no way in which Frances could have
obtained strychnine and to think that she would commit suicide is incredible,”
he declared.
Dr. Appleton Howe, who was approaching seventy, was a shrewd
old practitioner. He had brought into
the world half of the younger generation in Weymouth. He had been in practice nearly forty-two years. He was an expert pathologist and was well
versed in toxicology. He was
circumspect withal and he had not told Wilson Tirrell all that he had seen nor
all he suspected. “I may be mistaken,”
he said, “but I think we should know. I
will call tomorrow morning and arrange for the examination. If you are agreeable, we can proceed with it
tomorrow afternoon.”
But when George Hersey learned that an autopsy as
contemplated, he vigorously opposed it.
It seemed like a profanation of the dead girl, he said, adding, “It is
butchery. I would never permit a friend
of mine to be cut up if I had anything to say about it,” he concluded.
Now it is essential for a proper understanding of this mysterious
case – one of the strangest in the history of criminal jurisprudence in New
England – that the reader should know something of the locale and the persons
involved. Weymouth, fifteen miles
southeast of Boston, was settled in 1622 and became one of the earliest
shoemaking towns in America, and the manufacture of shoes is still its
principal industry.
One of the pioneers in this business was Wilson
Tirrell. He was a man of competence and
was respected accordingly. By his first
wife, he had four children: William B. Hersey, a brother of George Hersey,
Mary, and Betsy Frances, usually referred to as “Frances.” On November 30th, 1845, the
mother of these children died, and in march, 1846, he married Almira Blanchard,
by whom he had one child, Louisa, who at the time this story opens was twelve
years old.
The Hersey brothers, George and William, came to Weymouth
from Hingham. Their father was rich,
very rich for those days. On January 9th,
1857, George was married to an eighteen-year-old girl. This young wife, Emeline Hersey, died on the
seventh of February following.
George C. Hersey was a young man of exemplary character,
attended church regularly and was a welcome visitor at every Weymouth fireside,
honored and respected by all. He was
industrious, too, earning good wages at the shoe factory of Nathaniel Shaw
& Co., where he was employed on a stitching machine. He was thrift and provident and had saved
quite a sum of money.
When after the death of his young wife be began showing
attention to Mary Tirrell, old man Tirrell welcomed him figuratively, if not
literally, with open arms. During the
last days of December 1859, Mary Tirrell was taken suddenly ill and when she
passed away on January 2nd, 1860, George was at her bedside to
receive her last farewell kiss and to mingle his tears with those of her father
and sister. His devotion and his
palpable sorrow touched Wilson Tirrell, who already looked upon him as a son,
and he insisted that thereafter George should make his some with him. George gratefully accepted.
It was not long before Tirrell was consulting with George on
all-important matters and before taking any decisive step in his business
affairs he sought his advice and followed it.
The advice as sound, and little by little George became strongly
entrenched in the old man’s affections.
Frances, too, showed him many little sisterly attentions,
mending and brushing his clothing, making his shirts and darning his
socks. In fact, on the very day she
died she was doing some needlework for him.
In a short time George, it seemed to the family, responded to these
attentions, accompanying the girl to religious meetings and passing his
evenings in her society. While it was
too soon after Mary’s death to admit of an engagement between Frances and
George, there was a sort of tacit understanding to which there was no objection
upon the part of Wilson Tirrell.
When Dr. Howe arrived the next morning to complete
arrangements, Tirrell wavered. “Do you
think this postmortem examination is absolutely necessary, Doctor?” he
asked. Intuitively, the physician
sensed where the opposition lay and he resented it. First, there was stepmother suggesting that the girl had died of
indigestion and now here was a young man, not even a member of the family,
attempting to divert him from his purpose and what he regarded as his duty as a
physician.
“It seems to me essential that we should know what caused
your daughter’s death,” he replied somewhat testily. “If she has been poisoned, as I suspect, and we establish the
identity of the poison, it may save other members of your family from a like
fate. I think I shall have to insist on
an examination.” “Very Well” said
Tirrell, “you probably know best.”
On Saturday, afternoon – the girl died on Thursday – Dr.
Howe, Dr. Charles S. Tower and Dr. William D. C. Fifield met at the Tirrell
home. As they were about to enter the
keeping-room (death-room) where the body of the girl lay, Hersey made a
peculiar request. “Dr. Howe will there
be any objection to my being present at the examination?” he asked
quietly. The old doctor regarded him
searchingly. “Now what the devil does
he want to be there for?” he mused.
Aloud, he said: “Well, that’s an extraordinary request, but if nobody
else objects, I shall not.” And thereupon Hersey followed the doctors into the
room.
“I believe it is understood that Dr. Tower will operate,”
said Dr. Howe, “but first I would direct your attention to the discoloration of
the nipple and say that I found what seemed to me to be an unusual condition of
the abdomen in a virgin.” I’m not going
into the details of the autopsy further than is necessary. It is sufficient to say that the vital
organs showed no signs of disease. The
heart was normal and the lungs in a healthy condition. Suddenly, however, Dr. Tower paused in his
work to exclaim, significantly, “Look here, gentlemen.”
Dr. Howe turned to Hersey.
“We should like to be alone, now,” he said, and Hersey without a word of
protest let the room. Dr. Tower had
indicated a three months old fetus.
Despite the fact that the organs examined were in a healthy condition,
Dr. Howe was convinced that the girl was a victim of strychnine poisoning.
It seems pertinent to state here that, up to this time,
there had been no record of an American case where there had been an
examination for strychnine by chemical analysis of a dead body. In the famous English case of William
Palmer, an analysis has been made but no strychnine had been found. Although without a precedent for the
procedure, Dr. Howe directed Dr. Tower to remove the stomach and turn it over
to Dr. Augustus A. Hayes, State Assayer, for analysis.
As Dr. Howe left the room, he was accosted by Hersey. “Have you found the cause of death,
Doctor?” “No immediate cause, but we
suspect she was poisoned,” replied the physician. “Heavens and Earth!” ejaculated Hersey raising both hands. “Do you think she committed suicide?” “Possibly.
We found something, which makes that theory tenable. In short, we found that Miss Tirrell was
pregnant.”
For a moment Hersey appeared stunned. Then he sprang to the defense of the dead
girl. “You must be mistaken,
Doctor. Frances was not that kind of
girl. I would as soon think that of my
mother.” “I know George. It was a shock to all of us, but there’s no
possibility of a mistake. I shall have
some more information in a few days.”
Dr. Hayes shared the responsibility of the analysis with Professor Eben
N. Horsford of Harvard University, to whom he entrusted one-third of the
stomach.
On May 9th, Dr. Hayes reported in the stomach 2
1/10 grains of strychnine. Professor
Horsford recovered 9/10 of a grain – a total of 3 grains. (It may be remarked that one-half grain is
dangerous and in most cases fatal.) The
news of the discovery traveled quickly and soon the whole town was in a blaze
of excitement. Frances Tirrell, a girl
whose name had never been spoken except with respect, involved in an illicit
love affair. It was unbelievable. That she had poisoned herself to avoid
exposure of her indiscretion was the consensus. No one even hinted that the poison cold have been administered
with felonious intent.
Nothing had so stirred the sleepy New England village since
the trial of the wealthy Albert
J. Tirrell for the murder of the beautiful Marie Bickford, of which he was
acquitted sixteen years previous. Old
settlers in their dotage discussed the case over their toddy-sticks and girls
in pigtails whispered the story among themselves and there was a unanimity of
opinion that George Hersey, despite his excellent reputation was the one
responsible for the seduction of Frances Tirrell. Those who discounted the suicide theory thought that she had taken
the poison by mistake under the impression that she was taking something to
relieve her condition.
Hersey, conscious of the coolness everywhere, the averted
looks and the questioning glances of Frances’ relatives, was greatly
perturbed. To Susan Hersey, his
sister-in-law, he said dolefully, “You know, Susan, they’re blaming me and it’s
pretty hard to bear.” Susan patted his
shoulder, reassuringly, “Don’t take it too much to heart, George. It will all come out some day. Think who there is who might have led
Frances astray. Isn’t there someone,
anyone, whom you suspect? Think
hard.” “I’ve tried and I can’t. It was a terrible blow to me. Do you know even now I can’t believe it.”
But the worst was yet to come. That afternoon, Kingman Tirrell,
Frances uncle halted him, as he was on his way upstairs. “I think you had better leave the house,
George.” George stared as though not
fully comprehending his words, then he said dejectedly, “I didn’t think Wilson
Tirrell would do this to me.”
Wilson Tirrell, however, refused to accept the suicide
theory. He sent for Sheriff J. W.
Thomas. “I think this case demands a
thorough investigation,” he said tersely.
“When Frances said goodnight to me at nine o’clock, I know that the
thought of suicide was farthest from her thoughts. She asked me what she should prepare for breakfast and she was
more cheerful than she had been for several days. She had just bought a new dress and bonnet which she was going to
wear to Fall River the next day and she spoke several times about how much she
was going to enjoy the circus.” “Do you
really suspect George Hersey of poisoning her?” “Well, who else is there?”
The Sheriff reflected.
Who else was there? Frances
Tirrell, he well knew, had led a sheltered life. She had few gentlemen callers.
To be sure there were her cousins, Austin and Albert, sons of her uncle
Kingman, who came frequently and there were neighbors and friends who dropped
in occasionally, but there was no one in whom the girl had seemed especially
interested. To accuse George Hersey
would be a serious matter. Who else
was there? A though struck him and
he asked suddenly: “Who retired first
that night, George or Frances?”
“George. He went to
bed with a headache about eight o’clock and Frances sat up and for an hour
longer. They were hanging May baskets
and one came for my little girl, Louise, who occupied the bed with Frances and
who had gone to sleep. There was a doll
in the basket and Frances said she was going to wake her up and show it to her,
it would please her so much. A few
minutes later she kissed me goodnight and went upstairs.” Again Thomas paused for reflection. It was plain that there was a motive for
suicide, but he couldn’t conceive of a reason for Murder. Even if it were true that the girl had been
indiscreet with Hersey, he could have married her without objection on the part
of her family. Mentally, he reviewed
all the known circumstances without reaching a conclusion and through all his deliberations
the question of Wilson Tirrell recurred persistently, “Who else was there?”
All that night he tossed about feverishly unable to
sleep. In the morning he went to see
Mrs. Wilson Tirrell. Almira Tirrell,
stepmother of the dead girl, was typical of the New England housewife of that
day. She was orthodox from prayer
meetings to pies and her sole diversion was playing the hymns of good old Dr.
Watts on the wheezy old melodeon, heritage of a defunct ancestor. From which it may be readily seen that she
was not a very lively companion for a young and impressionable girl.
“Excuse me Mrs. Tirrell,” began Thomas smoothly, “But I’d
like to talk with you a bit about this strange death of your stepdaughter. What sort of a girl was she? How did you and she get along?” “Well, she was odd in some ways. Lately she hadn’t talked much to me. I asked her why she didn’t speak and she
said shed didn’t feel like talking. Of
course, we didn’t always think alike.
When she didn’t do the work just as I want it done, I found fault, as
she called it, and sometimes we’d have a few words.”
“I see. Do you think
she committed suicide?” “Yes, I do, and
I’ll tell you why. Yesterday, Ann
Tirrell, Kingman’s daughter, you know, was looking through the chest of drawers
in her room to see if she could find any poison and she found one of my platina
spoons that I don’t use very often in a very peculiar place.” “Where was it?”
“Well, in the fireplace there is a wooden fireboard that
Frances used to take out for ventilation and it was behind this fireboard that
she found the spoon.” The Sheriff
frowned. “Why does that interest you
particularly?” “I’m going to tell you,
if you’ll let me. There was some
preserve in the bowl of the spoon, some of my currant jelly, and I think she
put the poison in that.” “Where is the
spoon now?” “Why, I suppose it’s on a
shelf in the closet of Frances’ room where I left it.” “Get it will you please? I’d like to see it.” Mrs. Tirrell left the room and returned in a
few minutes with the spoon. A small
quantity of jelly remained in the bowl and here were traces of it around the
edges.
“I’ll take this with me; we’ll see if there is any poison in
it,” announced Thomas. Then, as though
it was an afterthought, “was Miss Ann Tirrell alone in the room when she found
the spoon?” “Why, no, I was in there,
looking around.”
Dr. Hayes and Professor Horsford scraped the dried preserve
from the spoon and found upon analysis that it contained pulverized crystals of
strychnine. Sheriff Thomas at once
interviewed the two neighborhood apothecaries.
Loring W. Derby of South Weymouth told him that he had sold no poison of
any description to George Hersey nor to any member of the Tirrell family. Amos White at Weymouth Landing and his
clerk, Francis Amble, denied that they had sold poison to anyone.
Wilson Tirrell was not satisfied. “You’ve done the best you could, Sheriff,” he said, “but I want a
detective. This mystery has got to be
cleared up and the guilty ma punished.
I’ll spend every dollar I’ve got if necessary. Now you get going.”
Thomas called in Detective John M. Dunn of Boston and Dunn’s first sep
was to search the Tirrell house from cellar to garret. He found nothing incriminating and after
securing a promise of cooperation from Thomas, he took the train back to
Boston.
Arriving at his office, he got his pipe going and pulled at
it in quick emphatic draughts while he reviewed the facts he had learned from
Sheriff Thomas. To his mind they didn’t
indicate suicide, although he conceded there was a motive. One contemplating such an act, he argued,
would be depressed.
Frances had spent the forenoon of the day on which she died
at the home of her uncle Kingman, and he and members of his family had asserted
positively that she had appeared more cheerful than usual. In the afternoon she had visited at the home
of another uncle, Christopher Blanchard, where she had said she was feeling
much better than she had felt for a long time and had talked vivaciously about
he contemplated trip the next day. She
had exhibited a breastpin containing a lock of Mary’s hair, which she was going
to have braided the next time she went to Boston.
He smoked on with knitted brows while unconsciously he
reduced his theory to a sort of quasi-syllogistic form. Frances Tirrell had died as a result of
strychnine poisoning; there had never been any strychnine in the house. Conclusion: Somebody had purchased it
somewhere and brought it there.
He decided to concentrate on that angle.
As he sat there speculating on the various aspects of the
case, subconsciously his eyes fell on a copy of the Boston Herald and he
recalled that Wilson Tirrell was probably a subscriber to that paper, as he had
noticed several copies of it about the house.
From force of habit he picked it up, his subjective mind still
theorizing on the mysterious death of Frances.
In those days the first pages were devoted almost
exclusively to advertisements and before he realized it, he was absorbed in one
that had caught his attention. It was
nearly a column in length and the gist of it was as follows:
Dr. Morrill is a skilful surgeon and renowned
practitioner. He is the unrivaled
benefactor of humanity. His remedy in
all cases of suppression is the one used by the Orients in preventing a too
large increase of progeny. Price five
dollars a bottle. Bottle of greater
strength twenty dollars. Only to be
procured at his office, No. 9 Howard Street, Boston.
Hastily jamming on his hat, Dunn hot-footed it for Howard
Street. He found the ‘unrivaled
benefactor of humanity” engaged and, extending a daguerreotype, he asked
quietly: “have you ever seen the original of this picture, Doctor?”
Morrill gave it only a perfunctory glance and handed it
back. “Yes, I have. He was in here at two different times. The first time he said he wished to ask me
some questions about medicines for females in a family way. I told him that would be advice and that I
should have to charge for it. “A few
months after that, he came in again and pretended not to know me. This time he said that he came to get some
advice for a friend. I replied that I
did not consult with a second person.
We had a little more conversation and I told him that the person needing
advice had better come and see me personally.
Then I asked her age and he said she was twenty-five and was about three
months advanced in pregnancy.
“He then asked me what an abortion would cost and I told him
that persons who did those things usually got from $25 to $500. He said, “Pooh! I can get someone for fifty cents.” “If you can do that, you don’t need any advice from me. By the way, I continued I think I’ve seen
you before. You’ve been getting into
this scrape often, haven’t you?” “He
said that he had, that women were all alike and he could do anything he wanted
with them. Then he said if I would let
him have some medicine he would pay for it if it did any good. I told him I didn’t sell medicines that
way. He stayed a few minutes longer and
then left, saying he would see me again, but he never came back.”
Dunn regarded him in silence for a few minutes, then asked:
“What was your medical school, Doctor?”
“I never went to college.” “Did
you ever study surgery?” “No.” “Your advertisement reads that you are a
skillful surgeon and a renowned practitioner.”
“Well, I was with Dr. Stevens while in Lowell and took advice from
him. I treat all diseases because I
read the same books other people do.”
“Have you ever procured abortions?”
“I decline to state.” “All
right, just one thing more. Did this
man, the man whose picture I hold in my hand, ever discuss poisons with
you?” “Yes he did. He asked me if I would sell him some
strychnine. Said there was a dog in his
neighborhood he wanted to get rid of .
I told him I didn’t keep it. He
then asked me if I would write him a prescription for it and I told him I would
not.”
Dunn was not wholly satisfied with Morrill. That the man was an arrant scoundrel, there
was no doubt. The picture he had shown
him was that of George Hersey, but he was disposed to question the
identification. He realized that the
history of the criminal law is full of instances of mistaken
identifications. The somewhat coarse
language attributed to his caller, too, was unlike that of Hersey, who had the
air and manners of a gentleman. The
inquiry about strychnine, if true, might well be merely a coincidence.
Still, there was a possibility that Hersey, unable to
procure medicine from Morrill, had resorted ot poison to get himself out of his
predicament. But why poison the girl
instead of marrying her? Well, he would
canvass the apothecaries.
Meanwhile, Sheriff Thomas had been making discreet inquiries
in Weymouth. His talks with several
shopmates of Hersey had resulted in startling disclosures. Edward Lewis, a shoecutter in the factory
where Hersey was employed, told the Sheriff that a few days prior to Frances
Tirrell’s death, Hersey had asked about several poisons, arsenic, laudanum,
etc., and finally had asked Lewis if he knew how strychnine operated. He referred to the famous Harvard case,
remarking that Professor Webster had taken it on his way to jail, but it was
ineffective. Lewis told him he knew
nothing of the properties of strychnine or what constituted a fatal dose. “You’re sure this talk occurred before the
death of the Tirrell girl?” asked Thomas.
“I’m sure it took place before.
It may have been a week before.
I can’t tell exactly.”
Then Spencer C. Gurney, who also worked in the Shaw shop
with Hersey, told of hearing the conversation with Lewis, but fixed the time as
“a few weeks” before the death of Frances.
Another shopmate, Frederick S. Torrey, said that Hersey had inquired
what poison would take life quickest and with the least pain. Thomas meditated on this for some time, then
went back to Loring Derby. “You say
Loring , that you never sold any poison to Hersey. Now I want to ask you something else. Did he ever ask you anything about poisons?”
Derby considered.
“Why, yes, come to think of it, he did.
We had a conversation one day about the effect of strychnine and
arsenic. I told him that strychnine
produced death quicker than arsenic, because it went more into the blood.”
Thomas was now sold on the theory that Hersey was
guilty. Back he went to the Tirrell
house confident that the bottle, which had contained the strychnine, was
concealed there in some place, which had not yet been searched. He turned everything topsy-turvy in bureaus
and closets, even peering behind the etching of Stannard’s Brigade, which hung
over the fireplace. Mrs. Tirrell eyeing
him the while in evident disapproval, but again the search was fruitless.
“Land’s sakes!” she ejaculated, “it’ll take me half a day to
clean up the mess you’ve made. I hope
to goodness you’re satisfied this time, Sheriff.” Thomas calculated he was.
“You’re sure there was nothing behind the fireboard except the spoon?”
he inquired, moodily. “Nothing of any
consequence; only some small pieces of colored paper.” “What did you do with them?” “Put them into the stove an burnt them up,
of course. What did you suppose I’d do
with them?” “Was there any printing on
the papers?” “Yes there was, but the
pieces were torn so small that I could only make out one word.” “What was that word?” “Lubin.”
“Lubin!” Little did
Almira Tirrell dream that she had disclosed a damning piece of evidence. The Sheriff continued his inquiries among
Hersey’s associates and was elated when he discovered what appeared to be an
adequate motive for the murder of Frances Tirrell. Hersey, one of his close friends said, was engaged to and
estimable young lady named Loretta Loud.
She was only sixteen, and infatuated with the older man, had readily
agreed to keep their engagement a secret.
Loretta Adeline Loud, golden haired, blue-eyed and
altogether desirable, lived with her widowed mother in South Weymouth. She was visibly embarrassed to receive a
caller in the person of Sheriff Thomas, but by tactful assurances he soon
succeeded in putting her at ease.
Here’s what she told him: “I
became engaged to George Hersey on the 25th of March, not quite
three months after the dath of Frances’ sister, mary Tirrell. Our engagement was kept secret at his
request. He said it was such a short
time since Mary died that it might be considered sort of -- well, disrespectful by Wilson Tirrell and
he didn’t wish to offend him, but, of course, I told my mother,” she added
quickly.
“So you expect to marry George, do you?” “No, I don’t. Our engagement terminated on the 39th of April; the
Sunday before Frances Tirrell died. She
died the following Thursday.” “Who
broke the engagement?” “I did.” “What was your reason, Loretta?” The girl hung her head. “I ended it on the advice of my mother,
because he made improper proposals to me.”
Sheriff Thomas was in a quandary. While Loretta’s story showed Hersey up in a bad light, it
furnished no motive for the murder of Frances Tirrell since she had broken the
engagement. There was no evidence to
justify charging him with the crime.
The conversations with his shopmates were susceptible of an innocent
explanation. While he was pursuing his
investigation in Weymouth, Detective Dunn was tramping the streets of Boston in
search of an apothecary who had sold strychnine to Hersey or to some member of
the Tirrell family.
He was utterly discouraged, however, because he had met with
no success. With only two more stores
to cover he had abandoned hope of discovering anything. One of these stores was that of E. F. and W.
D. Miller, at the corner of Union and Hanover Streets. There he found in charge a young man
apparently about twenty-three years old whose name he learned was Alfred
William Coburn.
“I am a detective,” announced Dunn. “Have you sold anybody any strychnine
recently?” The color mounted in
Coburn’s face. “Yes – I – have,” he
stammered. “Let me see your book. You recorded the sale, I suppose?” Coburn was perceptibly agitated. “No, sir, I didn’t.” Dunn’s eyebrows raised. “You know the law, I presume. Where poison is sold without a physician’s
prescription, a record must be kept of the date of sale and the name of the
purchaser.”
“I know I didn’t do right, but I was over persuaded. The man asked me if I would sell him some
and I told him it was against the law.
He talked me into it. Told me he
wanted it to kill a dog and I finally concluded to let him have it, as he
referred me to Frederick Whiton, the hatter across the street.” “How much did you sell him?” “Sixty grains. That’s what the bottle contained – one drachm; an eighth of an
ounce. It was corked and sealed and
plainly marked ‘poison.’ He paid me
seventy-five cents for it.” “Can you
describe this man?” “Yes, sir. He’s been in the store before and I talked
with him quite a while the last time he was in. He was tall, rather slight with dark, bushy hair, and his face
was full of whiskers. I particularly
noticed his eyes; they were dark and very piercing.” “Did he tell you his name?”
“Yes, he said his name was Tirrell and that he lived in Weymouth.” Dunn pulled the daguerreotype from his
pocket. “Look at this closely and don’t
make any mistake. Is that the
man?” “Yes, sir. There’s not the slightest doubt of it.”
Upon this evidence, Hersey was arrested at his father’s home
in Hingham, Great Plains, by Sheriff Thomas and Captain James Lawrence
Bates. He was arraigned before Judge
James Humphrey trial justice for Norfolk County, charged with first-degree
murder. He was held without bail to
await the action of the grand jury. The
arrest was a renewed sensation in Weymouth.
Many persons indulged in the well-worn phrase, “I told you so,” but
Hersey had staunch defenders who refused to believe him guilty and oddly enough
these latter came, not from the church members with whom he had associated so
closely, but from the more worldly in the little community.
To Dedham jail to identify Hersey (who had given his name as
Tirrell) as the man to whom he has sold strychnine came Alfred William
Coburn. The young man passed several
cells containing prisoners until he came to the one near the end of the
tier. He stopped and pointed his finger
dramatically, “That’s him,” he declared.
Hersey looked at him blankly.
“What are you talking about? I
never saw you before in my life.”
“Well, I remember you perfectly well.
I sold you sixty grains of strychnine.”
“You’re simply mistaken,” responded Hersey shortly. Coburn shook his head. “No, sir, I’m positive. You came into Miller’s apothecary store
where I work at the corner of Union and Hanover Street in Boston and coaxed me
into selling it to you so you could kill a dog. You had been in the store before, too, and made a purchase.” Hersey looked at him defiantly. “What did I buy?” he sneered. “A bottle of Lubin’s perfumery.” Lubin’s perfumery.
With apprehension of Hersey, Wilson Tirrell’s mind reverted
to the death of his daughter, Mary, who had died under circumstances similar to
those of Frances. By his orders, her body
as exhumed and by the stomach sent to Dr. Hayes for analysis. Dr. Hayes reported that he had recovered
corrosive sublimate from the stomach and intestines. It was then recalled that Hersey’s young wife, Emeline, had
passed away in convulsions and people began to talk of triple murder.
On May 28th, 1861, George C. Hersey was placed on trial for the murder of Frances
Tirrell in the Superior court at Dedham before Chief Justice George T. Bigelow
and Associate Justices Dewey, Merrick and Chapman. The Commonwealth of Massachusetts was represented by
Attorney-General Dwight Foster and District-Attorney Benjamin W. Harris. Counsel for Hersey were two famous criminal
lawyers, Hon. Elihu C. Baker and George S. Sullivan. The testimony of
government witnesses was practically the same as has already been given
here, so I will not weary the reader with a repetition. The defense witnesses were all character
witnesses.
Sullivan, who made the closing argument for the prisoner,
insisted that Frances Tirrell had committed suicide and that Coburn and Morrill
were mistaken in their identifications.
In his charge to the jury, Chief Justice Bigelow made this sage
remark: “Circumstantial evidence has
this great advantage – that various circumstances from various sources are not
likely to be fabricated.”
The defense made no exception to this charge, but in later
cases the courts have sustained exceptions to this statement to the jury,
holding that it is an argument for the prosecution and have granted defendants
new trials. The jury after being out
five hours returned a verdict of “Guilty
of murder in the first degree.” A
motion in arrest of judgment was overruled and on February 8th,
1862, Chief Justice Bigelow addressed Hersey as follows: “The sentence is that you
be taken from this place to the common jail at Dedham, there to remain until on
such day as shall be fixed by the executive government, you be removed to the
place of execution, there to be hanged by the neck until you are dead and my
God have mercy on your soul.”
Governor John A Andrew fixed the date of Friday August 8th
1862, for the execution. The gallows
was erected in the rotunda of Dedham jail at about the center of the north
side, between the wings. It was the
gallows on which Professor Webster was hanged in Suffolk County for the murder
of the wealthy Dr. Parkman, eight years previous.
Passes for the Hersey execution were issued to four-hundred
persons. The prisoner walked to the
gallows with closed eyes. He was on the
verge of a collapse and unable to walk unaided. He was supported by Rev. Nehemiah Adams and a guard.
The clergyman mad a long prayer during which Hersey breathed
with great difficulty, drawing long, convulsive breathes. A black robe was placed on him and a black
cap drawn over his face. His arms were
strapped and the noose placed about his neck.
At a signal from Sheriff Thomas, the trap was sprung and the soul of
George Hersey passed into eternity.
At the request of Hersey’s brother the body was placed in a
casket and delivered to Samuel Curtis of Weymouth for transportation to Hingham
where it was delivered to relatives.
As has been seen, this was purely a circumstantial evidence
case and like all cases of this character it comprehended the possibility of
error. The identification witnesses
might have been mistaken. The torn
pieces of paper with the word “Lubin” did not show conclusively that it came
from the particular bottle Coburn said he had sold to the defendant. There were still a great many people who
believed the State had executed an innocent man.
Finally, the gossip assumed such proportions that Sheriff
Thomas made public Hersey’s confession, which he had written in his presence
and that of other officers on the morning of the execution. It was as follows:
Dedham, Mass., August 8, 1862.
I, George Canning Hersey, being now about to appear in the
immediate presence of the All-seeing God and Judge, hereby declare in what
respect I am guilty, and in what respect not guilty, in the matters which have
been charged against me.
As to any act of even thought of procuring the death of
either my wife, or of Mary Tirrell, of both of which I have been suspected, I
am wholly innocent, so help me God. Nor
did I ever use means with either of them for any purpose resulting in their
deaths, so help me, God.
I hereby acknowledge that, in the sight of God, I am guilty
of the death of Betsy Frances Tirrell, for which I was indicted, and for which
I am now to suffer.
I hereby warn all young people, by my experience and fate,
against the indulgence of lustful passions.
These have brought me to my untimely end.
(Signed) George C.
Hersey
The foregoing was signed by Mr. Hersey in our presence and
declared by him to be his free act and deed, we witnessing his signature in his
presence and in the presence of each other.
Dedham, August 8, 1862
(Signed) John
W. Thomas, Sheriff
Silas
Binney,
James Ball.
