They Hanged My Saintly Billy (19 page)

Inspector
Field
and
I
have
since
questioned
Walkenden
about this
episode.
This
is
what
he
told
us:
'Poor
Watty
was
in
a
pretty bad
state
last
July.
He
often
begged
me,
if
I
ever
saw
that
another attack
of
the
horrors
was
on
the
way,
not
to
take
his
gin
from
him, as
I'd
done
in
December
before
he
went
in
front
of
the
insurance doctors.
"That
sober
stretch
did
me
plenty
of
harm,"
said
he. "If
only
I'd
only
been
allowed
my
gin
then,
when
I
wanted
it,
I shouldn't
have
been
half
so
bad
when
I
got
it
back
again."
Well, while
he
was
under
Dr
Waddell's
care,
sobering
up
for
the
visit to
his
wife,
I
had
orders
to
allow
him
only
two
or
three
small glasses
a
day,
as
when
he'd
had
the
horrors.
But
when
I
witnessed the
poor
fellow's
despair,
and
he
th
reatened
to
do
himself
an injury,
well,
I
sometimes
gave
him
a
glass
or
two
more
than
Dr Waddell
permitted,
if
there
was
real
necessity.
What
could
I
do? The
wretched
cove
used
to
beg
and
cry
for
liquor
as
if
that
were his
life.
He
used
to
do
all
he
could
to
get
gin,
and
be
very
cunning about
it,
too.
One
morning,
after
I'd
been
sitting
up
with
him
all night,
I
reckoned
he
was
so
ill
he
couldn't
leave
his
bed.
Downstairs
I
went,
to
the
kitchen
for
my
coffee
and
my
plate
of
bacon and
eggs;
and
was
well
engaged
with
the
victuals
when
I
heard
a noise
overhead.
"Why,"
I
says
to
myself,
"that
sounds
as
if
he were
out
of
bed,
but
it's
hardly
possible."
Upstairs
I
went
again, and
found
him
on
his
hands
and
knees,
searching
beneath
the dressing
table,
which
was
where
he
used
to
hide
his
gin
from me.

'
"Hulloa,
Sir,"
says
I,
"what
are
you
doing
there?" '
"I
can't
find
it,"
he
whimpers.

'
"No,"
I
answers.
"Nor
never
will!"
I
lifted
him
up,
though he
was
no
light
weight,
and
put
him
back
to
bed,
where
I
charitably
gave
him
a
tot.
He
used
to
hide
his
gin
bottle
in
all
sorts
of places—under
his
mattress,
in
his
boots,
anywhere.
Well,
after
a hard
week
of
it,
we
restored
him
to
a
condition
where
he'd
eat again;
and,
once
he
got
an-eating,
the
rest
wasn't
hard.
Dr
Palmer, he
arranged
for
Watty's
wife
to
meet
him
at
Liverpool
railway station;
and
we
sat
Watty
in
a
train.
The
guard
had
orders
that he
mustn't
alight
at
any
station
to
buy
drink.'

Walter
Palmer
spent
five
days
at
Liverpool
and,
it
seems,
stayed perfectly
sober
all
the
time,
to
please
his
wife,
who
did
not
let
him out
of
her
sight.
On
August
9th,
he
returned,
and
spent
the
next day
at
Rugeley
with
his
mother,
his
sister
Sarah,
and
Dr
Palmer. That
night
he
wrote
his
wife
a
letter
which
has
since
been
printed in
a
newspaper.
I
have
the
cutting
here
in
my
pocketbook.

Castle
Terrace,
Stafford, August
10th, 1855

My
dearest
Agnes,

I
left
you
last
evening
and
did
feel
I
possessed
a
light
heart;
but
on
my
arrival
at
War
rington
I
found
the
South
Express
was
three-quarters
of
an
hour
late,
owing
to
the
flood
washing
away
arches, etc.
I
was
lonely—only
myself
in
the
carriage.
The
rain
on
my
arrival was
incessant.
Thanks
to
God,
I
had
not
far
to
go.
I
have
been
home today;
I
am
truly
sorry
to
say
Mother
has
been
very
unwell,
but
is better.
I
told
Sarah
you
was
going
to
the
concert
on
the
27th,
and
she wishes
to
go
too.
Please
write
to
her,
and
she
can
come
with
me.
If I
should
bring
little
Miss
Barber,
you
won't
be
jealous,
will
you?
But I
don't
know
whether
we
shall
meet
or
not.
I
should
like
you
to know
one
steady
and
sensible
creature
upon
earth,
but
not
a
teetotaller
on
principle.
She
says:
'I
never
drink
one
glass
of
wine
in twelve
months
and
have,
therefore,
no
occasion
to
be
a
teetotaller.' I
will
write
to
you
tomorrow
and
explain
a
few
little
secrets.
Good night,
God
bless
you,
and
ever
believe
in
the
affection
of

Walter
Palmer