Damn His Blood (32 page)

A streak of malice could be detected in these answers. The parish records reveal an untold story. In 1808, shortly after Parker’s murder, Surman had given birth to a bastard son. The child had lived just long enough to be baptised, and it is likely that her application for parochial relief stemmed from this time. None of this was told to Smith or the jury, but Surman had established herself as a dangerous witness – perhaps with an old score to settle.

The final half-hour of the day saw Surman trace her fire on John Barnett. She told the courtroom that he had hidden from Pyndar when he arrived in the parish. She recalled Pyndar dragging him out into the lane and admonishing him, and how Old Mrs Barnett had stopped James Tustin from joining Mr Hemmus in the pursuit. All told, her evidence was so damaging to John Barnett and his family that it seemed vengeful. It was to be the closing act of an extraordinary day.

At seven o’clock William Smith adjourned the inquest until nine o’clock on Friday morning, binding all in the jury and list of witnesses to return to the inn. It had been as auspicious a start as he could have wanted. Smith knew that a successful and rigorous coroner’s inquest was crucial to the outcome of a case. Often such occasions were indolent, scarcely worth more than the three-sentence summary that followed, after a pause of a week, in local newspapers. In his letter to the
London Medical Gazette
in 1834 Dr Cummin had complained bitterly about the ineffectiveness of inquests and had vented his anger on coroners, whom he considered overworked men of little capacity.

The officer who presides is held in no very great public estimation; he is frequently a man of very limited acquirements – a mere lawyer; his field of labour is generally extensive, and he has, of course, much labour on his hands. He gathers a jury, as chance throws them in his way, of personages commonly more superficial than himself, and who being pressed into the service, and acting reluctantly, are easily satisfied and find whatever verdict is suggested to them. If medical evidence be called at all, it is such as gives least trouble to procure, for the coroner has no means of remunerating competent witnesses whose testimony might be desired; so the evidence which is obtained is generally volunteered and obtruded by persons who have no valuable information to give, nor object perhaps, except to acquire a little petty notoriety.

Cummin’s complaints were valid. Many coroners were not the enlightened referees that Peel and the English justice system desired, but bureaucratic relics who relied more on antique prejudice than common sense. Inquiries were often rushed, sophisticated medical opnions were seldom sought, small numbers of witnesses were generally allowed to grandstand and juries all too frequently arrived at the most obvious conclusion. The problem, though, was not with the system but with the fact that it relied too heavily on the calibre of the official in charge. Where a disinclined or lazy coroner might fail, his competent and energetic peer might fare better. With the right man at the tiller, coroner’s inquiries remained potent judicial devices. This was mainly because they were not governed by the stiff rules of court cases, which forbade various types and lines of questioning. Coroner’s inquests were much more flexible, more spontaneous, more likely to thrill, shock or surprise.

Richard Barneby and William Smith represented two different classes of coroner. Barneby had been languid, timorous and tractable when William Barnett had called for him in 1806. Two decades on, Smith was his antithesis: zealous, inquisitive and determined. He had succeeded in creating an environment of contained excitement at the Talbot, intelligently utilising Pierpoint’s expertise and assembling a jury that, ostensibly at least, was fit for its task. In this distinctly public arena, not much more than a mile from the centre of Worcester, he had demonstrated beyond doubt that the skeleton belonged to Heming. Thomas Barber and Susan Surman had supplemented this achievement by becoming the first two parishioners to testify against Clewes and Barnett in public – more would surely follow on the Friday. On his side Smith had intrigue and he had momentum. As he stepped out of the Talbot onto the cobbles and into the cool wind that blew along The Tithing the truth felt tantalisingly close.

News of the discovery of Heming’s skeleton was now spreading past the county bounds.
The Herefordshire Journal
published reports of Burton’s find as Smith’s inquiry was beginning in Worcester. Within a few days an article in
Berrow’s Worcester Journal
, the first of the city’s papers to print after the discovery, was being syndicated in columns across the country. The public mood was captured in a letter composed by a resident of Worcester on 25 January.

The inhabitants of this city
³
and of the towns for many miles around it are at this moment in a state of great excitement, in consequence of the discovery of a skeleton of a man found buried in the bay of a barn at Oddingley, near this city, which has been recognised as that of a carpenter named Heming who disappeared in a miraculous manner immediately after a murder had been committed in that village, in June 1806. Notwithstanding a period of upwards of twenty-three years has elapsed since this horrible transaction took place, Providence had ordered that the extraordinary and atrocious circumstances attending the two-fold murder should now be disclosed.

The author of the letter dwelt at great length on Burton’s discovery, before turning his focus on Thomas Clewes.

The occupier of the barn at the time of the murder, and in which the skeleton has been found is still in existence. Ever since the death of the first victim, the neighbourhood fixed their suspicions on one man, who has never prospered from that period: – ‘His cattle died and blighted was his corn’ – he afterwards became a bankrupt.

The letter was published in the Chelmsford Chronicle and other newspapers in the east of England a few days later. It reflected the generally held belief that Clewes had guilty knowledge of the crime. This appeared plain enough. As Burton and Waterson had explained, the old barn could only be opened with the master’s key. And even if the key had been stolen – and Clewes had never said that it had – Clewes must have noticed that a corner of his barn had been dug up. But he had said nothing. The growing feeling was that Clewes knew all along about the grave because he had put the body there. Having paid Heming to commit Parker’s murder (Thomas Barber and Susan Surman had testified in support of this theory), Clewes had lured him to Netherwood, where he had dispatched him in turn. The case seemed simple. If one man could stoop so low as to arrange the murder of another then surely he would have little trouble carrying the horrible affair to its miserable conclusion.

Clewes now lived quietly in Trench Wood with his family, but he had recently appeared in the local newspapers for an entirely different reason. Just before Christmas 1829, six weeks before the beginning of the inquest, he had spent an evening drinking heavily at the Virgin Tavern on the outskirts of Worcester. It was late when Clewes staggered out of the taproom to begin his journey home, and as his path included a stretch along the towpath of the Birmingham and Worcester Canal the landlord had persuaded another drinker to see him safely home.

This man, named Footman, had hurried after Clewes and had caught up with him by Tibberton Lock, ‘where by accident or design’ Clewes had stumbled into the canal. Intoxicated, unable to swim and with no light to illuminate the scene, Clewes may well have drowned had Footman not dived in and dragged him to the bank. To show his appreciation, Clewes had testified to the secretary of the Worcester Humane Society, which, the newspapers reported, had conferred a reward on Footman on 2 January, acknowledging his bravery.

A month later this incident was being seen in a sinister light. It was held up as an example of Clewes’ torrid state of mind: senseless with alcohol, swaying on the banks of the canal, a lost soul indifferent to his fate. In Oddingley other rumours began to surface. One of Henry Waterson’s daughters remembered seeing him outside the barn at Christmas, just after Burton had begun dismantling it. She said that ‘he had stopped for a while [in the lane] and gazed as if apprehensively’.

Another labourer recalled drinking with Clewes in the taproom of the White Horse in Worcester. It was shortly before Wellington’s victory at Waterloo, and the subject of conversation was the return of Bonaparte from Elba. One of the drinkers had suggested that once again there would be a terrible slaughter of the army. Clewes – with his tongue loosened by drink – had rejoined that ‘there would not be half so much fuss about that as there had been over the death of a parson’. The conversation had then shifted to Parker’s murder, and there was a discussion about where Richard Heming might be. One of the party said, ‘Wherever Heming is, he will come to the gallows in time,’ to which Clewes had replied wistfully, ‘I know better than that. Heming is safe enough.’
⁵

A similar story was told by Thomas Bunn, another local farmhand. In 1826 Bunn had found Clewes drinking alone in the taproom of the Barley Mow in Droitwich. The men had shared a drink and then set off back towards Oddingley. As they strolled along the country lane, they complained about the local farmers’ hard treatment of the poorer parishioners. ‘They had better not be too hard with me,
⁶
or I’ll tell them something,’ Clewes had said. Bunn instantly supposed that Clewes was referring to Parker’s murder, but when pressed on the subject he was silent, and they parted shortly after at a fork in the road.

It seemed, in these unguarded moments when alcohol had weakened his senses, that a confession was about to come. It never did, but few believed that the worst crimes could be completely hidden. Although a guilty conscience could be disguised, a damned soul had other ways of revealing itself. Signs that Clewes was being punished for his sins were found in his dead animals at Netherwood, his heavy drinking, his debts and bankruptcy. Taken independently any of these could be dismissed, but they added up to something more. It was something intangible but definite. It was a pattern. A theme. Something bad.

But as speculation mounted, Clewes made no public comment, and the increased certainty that he was involved was beginning to be a problem for William Smith. He was aware of the rumours but had no firm evidence against Clewes. Furthermore, he had no idea about the circumstances which had surrounded Heming’s death: what the murder weapon had been, when it had happened and how it had come about. If he was to arrest Clewes on suspicion of murder he needed answers to at least one of these puzzles. Somebody had to testify against him.

In a community as small and tightly knit as Oddingley Smith felt that someone had to be able to implicate him: a farmhand, a jobbing trader, a taproom confidant? In more than two decades, Clewes
must
have muttered something indiscreet to a labourer in the fields or between the walls of a barn or stable. Two labourers in particular had attracted his attention. John Collins and William Smith had worked for Clewes at Netherwood during the summer of 1806. They were both still alive and recalled events at the time of the murder. Their evidence might prove vital.

All the while letters flew to and fro. On 26 January Smith wrote again to Peel in London informing him the matter was being investigated and ‘the identity of the skeleton
⁷
has been proved beyond the profitability of doubt’. Smith had learnt his lesson, and in approaching Peel a second time he delved into such detail to suggest that he had an impressive and firm hold upon events. He told Peel that in both 1806 and afterwards a great many depositions had been taken by Reverend Pyndar, who was set to attend the second day of the inquest on Friday. Smith then listed the names of the magistrates in Worcester in reply to Peel’s direct question and signed off, enquiring whether the home secretary would like a copy of the depositions.

Peel received Smith’s letter on 27 January and responded the following morning. By now reports of the discovery were sweeping the country, verifying Smith’s initial communication and reinforcing his request for a royal pardon. By now Peel had considered the case for a week and his reply was suggestive. He asked for a copy of all the depositions proving Heming had been murdered ‘before I recommend the promise of a pardon’. As was his habit Peel refused to commit himself fully. But the news that Smith had captured the home secretary’s attention came as a boost to the investigations when it became known in Worcester.

Smith reconvened the inquest at 9 a.m. sharp on Friday 29 January. Those travelling to the city from Oddingley would have woken in cold darkness and been well on their way by the time the first traces of gloomy sunlight had hit the Malvern Hills at a quarter to eight. Arriving in Worcester they would have heard the ‘gladdening peals’ of the cathedral’s bells ringing out in celebration of the tenth anniversary of King George IV’s accession. A mile to the north an eager crowd jostled for seats at the Talbot, with those who missed out left standing one against the other, prompting the
Worcester Herald
to complain that the courtroom ‘was crowded to excess’.

The first parishioner to speak was Joseph Colley. Reverend Parker’s friend was now 77 years old, an elderly man with a wizened frame, grizzled hair and an unshaven face. He told Smith about his suspicions of Heming and his warning to Parker: ‘Why sir, he wants to shoot you.’ At length Smith asked Colley whether he had seen Heming and Clewes together.

‘I’ve seen Heming and Clewes drinking together at the Red Lion, Droitwich, two or three times before the murder of Mr Parker,’ Colley said.