CHAPTERCLXIV.MRS. DYSONS DEPARTURE—AUTOBIOGRAPHIC SKETCH AND SELF-VINDICATION.After the trial and condemnation of Charles Peace, Mrs. Dyson left for the United States, and subsequently she conducted herself while in New York in anything but a creditable manner. She left Sheffield for Liverpool on Thursday morning,Feb.26th. 1879, and later in the day she embarked on board the White Star steamer Britannic (the vessel in which she returned to this country)en routefor Cleveland, Ohio. She was accompanied by Police-constable Walsh as far as Queenstown.Mrs. Dyson was desirous, before leaving this country of contradicting in the most emphatic terms the imputations which had been freely cast upon her character and her morality. She accordingly left the following narrative behind her with an earnest request that, by its publication, she would be set right in the estimation of her husband’s townsmen:—I was born in Ireland, at Maynooth. There I remained until I was fifteen years old. Then, having just left school, I started off by myself to see my sister, who had previously gone off to America. She was living at Cleveland, Ohio, and is the wife of Mr. Mooney, captain on one of the Lake Erie steamers.Though I only went originally to see my sister, I stayed at Cleveland, for I liked the place, the people, and the life. It was there that I first met my husband. He was then a civil engineer, in the service of Sir Morton Peto, and was at that time one of the engineers on the Atlantic and Great Western Railway.We married, and spent our honeymoon on a visit to the Falls at Niagara. Coming back from our honeymoon, we went into housekeeping at Cleveland, but we did not remain there long. We stayed only until the section of the line of which Mr. Dyson had charge was finished.Then he received another appointment—that of engineer to theSt.Louis Railway, known as the Iron Mountain Road, and went to reside there. He subsequently became the engineer of other lines then in course of construction, and his last engagement in America was as superintendent engineer of the magnificent bridge which spans the Mississippi, and here his health broke down.He had been often compelled to lead a very rough kind of life, and it began to tell. His duties made that necessary, for the railways on which he was engaged opened up quite new country. The life, however, had many charms for me. I am a good hand at driving, and am fond of horses. I always used to drive Mr. Dyson. He used often to say that I could drive better than he, and he would sit back in his buggy—they call them buggies there—whilst I held the reins and sent the horses along.I liked the excitement of driving him to and from his work, and especially when we were in new country, and he was out surveying. I have driven him through forests where there were bears, and over creeks—they call rivers creeks in America—that were swollen by the floods. The horses have often had to swim.I remember on one occasion sending the horses and the buggy across a river, and then coming over myself on a piece of timber. Of course such a life has some drawbacks, but I was young and strong, and it possessed for me considerable fascination.My husband loved me and I loved him, and in his company and in driving him about in this wild kind of fashion, I derived much pleasure.Afraid? Not I. I did not then know what fear was. Besides, I have a good deal of courage—I think I have gone through sufficient (here Mrs. Dyson’s tone was tinged with some sadness) of late to show that—and I always felt safe. To be in positions attendant with danger caused me not fear, but a kind of excitement which, if not always pleasurable, certainly possessed some kind of fascination.But, as I have said, Mr. Dyson’s health broke down, and he was compelled to return to England. This was about four years ago. We first lived at Tinsley, with Mr. Dyson’s mother; then at Highfield, nearly opposite the police station; and afterwards we took a house in the Alexandra-road, Heeley. Then we went to Darnall, and it was there that my troubles began. But for our going there, Mr. Dyson would probably have been still alive, and I should have been spared all that has happened since.You will naturally ask how I became acquainted with Peace. It was impossible to avoid becoming acquainted with him. Besides, at that time I did not know the sort of man he really was. He lived the next door but one to us at Darnall, and he used generally to speak to Mr. Dyson in going in and out.Mr. Dyson was a gentleman, and, of course, when Peace spoke to him he used to reply. He introduced himself, and would have you to talk with him whether you would or no. At first Mr. Dyson did not object, and Peace became a constant visitor to the house. Our impression of him at that time was that he was really a nice old man. I suppose you have heard how plausible he was? He was plausibility itself. To hear him talk, you would have thought him the most harmless of men.To us he appeared to be simply a picture-framer in anything but good circumstances, for he had but little business to do, and his wife used to go out every morning washing bottles. We considered they were poor. Mr. Dyson soon began to tire of him. He very soon began to show that he was anything but a gentleman. Mr. Dyson could not stand that; and, besides, he had seen something which disgusted him—some obscene pictures which Peace had shown him. He said he didn’t like a man of that kind, and wouldn’t have anything more to do with him.Besides, another thing greatly repelled Mr. Dyson. It was this. Peace wanted to take him to Sheffield to show him what he called the “sights of the town.” Mr. Dyson knew what that meant, and being, as I have said, a gentleman, he became much disgusted at Peace and annoyed that he should force his company upon us. My husband had been used to other society. But we couldn’t get rid of him. We were bound to show him common politeness. Though he must have seen that we didn’t want his company, he forced himself upon us.He would, for instance, drop in just when we were sitting down to tea, and we were compelled almost to ask him to have a cup. His constant visits to the house at last became intolerable to us, and then it was that my husband placed his card in the garden, desiring Peace not to annoy him or his family.When he found that he could no longer gain access to the house, Peace became awfully impudent. He would, for instance, stand on the doorstep and listen through the keyhole to what we were talking about, or look through the window at us. His persecutions at this time became almost unbearable. He did everything he could to annoy us. I was not afraid of him, and should have taken the law into my own hands, but my husband would not hear of such a thing. He always advised me to keep quiet.Amanuensis: It is impossible for you, Mrs. Dyson, to be unaware of the rumours afloat as to the terms on which you and Peace were at Darnall. Would you like to say anything about that matter?Mrs. Dyson: That is just what I want to speak about. (Here Mrs. Dyson spoke under some emotion and her face became quite flushed with excitement.) That’s what I want to speak about, and I want you to do me the justice of writing down just what I state.The public of Sheffield—the vulgar public I mean—have been prejudiced against me. I have been tried in every shape and form since I came over here to give evidence, and my character and credibility have been made light of. But I want the people of Sheffield to see that I am a different kind of person from that which they have taken me for. They have classed me with Peace and Mrs. Thompson, and others of his gang, but I wish to show them that I am far superior to any of them.Mr. Dyson did not take a stronger disgust to Peace than I did. In fact, I think I was the first to express my disgust. I could not stand his impudence and the way in which he went on. I had not been used to such society as his proved to be, and I rebelled against it. I can hardly describe all that he did to annoy us after he was informed that he was not wanted at our house. He would come and stand outside the window at night and look in, leering all the while; and he would come across you at all turns and leer in your face in a manner that was truly frightful. How is it that having been so friendly with me and Mr. Dyson, Peace should conceive so intense a dislike to us? Well, I admit that’s a matter which has never been clearly stated, and I want it clearly stating now. His object was to obtain power over me, and, having done that, to make me an accomplice of his.I have told you that when I knew him first I thought him to be a picture-framer, and nothing more. Since then, however, I have learnt a good deal, and much that was difficult to understand has been made plain.He wanted me to leave my husband. “What should I do that for?” I said, “If you will only go to Manchester,” he answered, “I will take a store (American for shop) for you, and will spend £50 in fitting it up. You shall have a cigar store, or a picture store. You are a fine-looking woman. You look well in fine things, and I will send you fine clothes and jewellery, and if you wanted to pawn them it would be easy. The pawnbroker would think everything all right. Suppose for instance, you had a grand pair of bracelets on, all you would have to do would be to go into the pawnbroker’s, take them off your wrist, and say, ‘I want to pawn these things.’” He also said, “If you will only do what I want you, there shall not be such another lady in England as you may be.”At the time I couldn’t understand what was his object. Of course, I see it plain enough now. At that time I didn’t know he was a burglar. But I was suspicious.I remember on one occasion he offered me a sealskin jacket and several yards of silk. If I had accepted them I should have been quite in his power. I declined his present, and told him that if he had a sealskin jacket and some silk to spare, he had better make a present of them to his wife and daughter.I also told him that they wanted them much more than I did, and that if I desired to have a sealskin jacket, I would wait for it until my husband bought it, and that if he couldn’t I was content to go without.Some time afterwards he offered me a gold watch; but I wouldn’t have it. That, of course, was stolen. I consider that he offered me these presents as one means of getting me into his power.I remember, when he was speaking to me about Manchester, he said, “If you will only go, I’ll fix you up there nice. You will have a splendid business, and will live like a lady.”“Thank you,” I said, “I always have lived like one, and shall continue to do so quite independently of you.” I was getting downright mad with him, because of his constantly bothering me.What he wanted me to go to Manchester for was to pass off his stolen goods—at least that is my opinion. When he found he could not succeed by fair means, then he tried what threats and persecution would do. He once came into my house, and said as I would not do what he wanted, he would annoy and torment me to the end of the world.“Don’t you ever come into my house again,” I said, “or ever darken its doors.”But it was no use. He still came whenever he could get in, and when he couldn’t he watched for me and followed me wherever I went. I have known him go to the railway station and say to the booking clerk after I had taken my ticket, “Give me a ticket for where she’s going.” That’s how it was he followed me to Mansfield, and then came into the same house there where I and my companion were staying.That was, too, how it was that he was seen with me in the streets. So it was as regards his being with me in the fair ground, about which so much has been made.I went to the fair with a neighbour and her children, and when we got into the photographic saloon my intention was to have the children photographed. I had no intention whatever of having myself taken with Peace, but he stood behind my chair at the time my likeness was taken. That was quite unknown to me, though, at the time.You can have no idea, unless you know the man, how he persecuted one, and attempted to get me within his power.Once I was terribly frightened at him. I was busy, I remember, doing something in the kitchen, and my back was turned to the door. Hearing a slight noise, I turned round, and then I saw Peace standing just inside the door. The expression on his face was something dreadful. It was almost fiendish—devilish. He had a revolver in his right hand, and he held it up towards me and said, in an excited and threatening manner, “Now, will you go to Manchester? Now will you go to Manchester?” I did not shriek, but I cried out “No, never! What do you take me for?”Finding that I was firm, he dropped his hand and went out; but I can assure you that I was frightened at the time. He had a way of creeping and crawling about, and of coming upon you unawares; and I cannot describe to you how he seemed to wriggle himself inside the door, or the terrible expression on his face. He seemed more like an evil spirit than a man.He turned against me solely because he could not make me do as he wanted. He thought he could handle me as he liked, that I was a weak sort of a woman, and could be got over like others who have been associated with him; but he found he was mistaken. I was terribly tried by him, though, and at last I was frightened—I don’t deny it.There have been times when I haven’t feared him, and when I should have thrashed him if Mr. Dyson would have allowed me. I once did give him a good hiding, because he had insulted and annoyed me, but perhaps I had better not say much about that now. I used to be especially afraid of him at nights, because he had a habit of continually prowling about the house, and of turning up suddenly. He would, too, assume all sorts of disguises. He used to boast how effectively he could disguise himself; and I was afraid of his coming in some guise or other at night, and carrying out his threats.I never saw such determination and persistency as his. It seems to me there was scarcely anything which he couldn’t accomplish if only he was determined. The only way to get rid of him was to knock him down, as I once did.Determined as he was one way, I was equally determined the other, and that was why he never succeeded with me. He once made use of this expression to me, “I don’t care how independent you are, I’ll get hold of you some way or other.” But I said as firmly as I could, “Never!” and so I have always said.The statement is not true that your husband was jealous of you and Peace, and so decided to go to Bannercross? Why should he be jealous? There was no cause; for all this time that we were at Darnall I was doing my best to withstand Peace. I know what has been thought and what has been said. (Here Mrs. Dyson spoke excitedly and in a tone of much bitterness.) I think no woman has ever been tried as I have.Why, ever since I came from America to give evidence, they have been trying me, not Peace. I want the public to understand that I have been tested to the utmost, and yet what has been proved against me? Why absolutely nothing.All that has been said about myself and Peace is a lie, and I wish it to be put down as alie. If you could draw three strokes under the word, so as to make it plainer I should like it done. I wanted this opportunity of saying what I have on this matter. I had no one to speak up for me, I had to speak for myself. I deny what has been said and imputed with regard to Peace and myself, and I dare and defy any one to say with truth that my conduct with regard to him was anything but what was right. We went to Bannercross simply because we were afraid of Peace. What became of Peace after the warrant was taken out I never knew, except that I heard he had gone over to Manchester.He suddenly disappeared, and I did not see him again until on the very day that our furniture was being removed to Bannercross. I and my husband saw him coming out of our new house there. So annoyed and irritated was I at this that I really should have caught hold of him, and held him until a policeman could have been fetched. But my husband would not hear of such a thing. I really felt quite mad.This was on the 25th October, and I did not see him again till the night of the murder. There is no truth whatever in the imputation that I was with Peace on the day and night previous to the murder. I say I never saw him from the time of his coming out of our house on the 25th of October till I saw him, pistol in hand, standing outside the closet door on the night of the murder. To say that I did is an abominable and wicked lie. But no one can really say that I did.It is true certain persons were brought at the trial, but could they say that they had seen me? No, not one of them: and I defy them to say it.I am aware, as you say, that when I was asked if Peace did not follow me into the “Stag” Inn on the night before the murder, I replied that I could almost swear it wasn’t Peace. I know also that it seemed as if my evidence at that point was weak. But I didn’t want to swear a lie.Peace had been in the habit of so disguising himself and of following me about that I should not have been surprised if it had been him. That was why I answered Mr. Lockwood in the way I did. It certainly was not Peace. Of that I am confident.It is not true, as it was imputed, that I was in the fair with Peace on the day before my husband was shot. I simply passed along the road from the Victoria Station and looked over the wall. Neither is it true that I went with him to any dining-rooms, or to a public-house. That is a lie altogether.The only place I called at was at Mr. Muddiman’s shop, at the top of Pinstone-street, and I went from there to the “Stag” at Sharrow.If I were to die this minute, I am altogether innocent of seeing Peace or of having anything to do with him from the time of our going to Bannercross till the night of the murder. I cannot put the matter plainer than that, and I want it putting plainly.As to the letters which Peace dropped on the night of the murder, I say as I have always said—that I never wrote them. They were base forgeries, and were written with an object. I cannot say whether Peace wrote them himself or whether they were written by members of his family, because they, as well as he, tried to get me into their power. But I know what the object was. It was to endeavour to compromise me.Yet how much has been said about those letters, and how I have been maligned in regard to them! I don’t think any woman has been tried as I have, or has been compelled to go through so much. But I have been able to stand up through it all, because I have spoken nothing but the truth. If the letters were mine, the handwriting could have been easily proved. Wasn’t I tried in court about it? Didn’t they ask me not once, but twice, to give specimens of my handwriting? If the letters were mine, they could then easily have proved it.The letters must have been manufactured for a purpose. I don’t see how else they could have come into existence. So far from writing to Peace after the murder, I never wrote to him in my life. I never heard anything about Peace from the night of the murder until Walsh came over to Cleveland to fetch me.I was staying at my sister’s house there, and Walsh went direct to the house. When told that he had come, I knew at once what he wanted me for, and to his question whether I was willing to go back with him to give evidence against Peace, I said “I would go back if I had to walk on my head all the way.”That’s just what I said, and it will show how willing I was to give evidence.Of course, at the time I didn’t know what I should have to pass through, but if it were to come all over again I would do the same. My friends didn’t want me to come, and did all they could to dissuade me. I also received a threatening letter from Sheffield. But I was determined to come. My desire was that Peace should receive the justice he so richly deserved.I didn’t really know that Peace was a burglar until after the murder. If I had he would never have entered our doors. But what I know now explains a good deal.For instance, when we were out walking together, if I happened to look into a shop window, he would say to me, “Is there anything there you would like? If there is I will get it for you before morning.” He would say that if I looked into a jeweller’s or a draper’s shop. I did not know what he meant then, but I do now.My suspicions were aroused, for I used to see him leave his house at Darnall in the evenings with a little satchel under his arm, and he would come back early in the morning carrying a large bundle. The satchel, I suppose, contained his housebreaking implements. He often used to go to Manchester with this satchel.He came to my door one morning just as he was going to Manchester. He then had his satchel with him. Looking into the room where I was, he said, “I’ll have you alive or dead. I’ll have you, or else I’ll torment you till the end of your life.”On another occasion, when I had defied him, he said, “I’ll make you so that neither man nor woman shall look at you, and then I’ll have you to myself.”I answered, “Never. What can you do? What are you capable of?”“No matter,” he replied “I’ll do it.”He was always wanting to get my photograph, and as I wouldn’t give him it, he or some member of his family stole one out of a locket which I had. It was afterwards copied by a photographer in Sheffield, and I have fancied since that he wanted to get my features transferred in some way or other to one of his obscene pictures and so disgrace me.I cannot understand in any other way what he meant by saying that he would make me so that neither man nor woman should look at me.My opinion is that Peace is a perfect demon—not a man. I am told that since he has been sentenced to death he has become a changed character. That I don’t believe. The place to which the wicked go is not bad enough for him. I think its occupants, bad as they might be, are too good to be where he is. No matter where he goes, I am satisfied there will be hell. Not even a Shakespeare could adequately paint such a man as he has been. My life-long regret will be that I ever knew him.
After the trial and condemnation of Charles Peace, Mrs. Dyson left for the United States, and subsequently she conducted herself while in New York in anything but a creditable manner. She left Sheffield for Liverpool on Thursday morning,Feb.26th. 1879, and later in the day she embarked on board the White Star steamer Britannic (the vessel in which she returned to this country)en routefor Cleveland, Ohio. She was accompanied by Police-constable Walsh as far as Queenstown.
Mrs. Dyson was desirous, before leaving this country of contradicting in the most emphatic terms the imputations which had been freely cast upon her character and her morality. She accordingly left the following narrative behind her with an earnest request that, by its publication, she would be set right in the estimation of her husband’s townsmen:—
I was born in Ireland, at Maynooth. There I remained until I was fifteen years old. Then, having just left school, I started off by myself to see my sister, who had previously gone off to America. She was living at Cleveland, Ohio, and is the wife of Mr. Mooney, captain on one of the Lake Erie steamers.
Though I only went originally to see my sister, I stayed at Cleveland, for I liked the place, the people, and the life. It was there that I first met my husband. He was then a civil engineer, in the service of Sir Morton Peto, and was at that time one of the engineers on the Atlantic and Great Western Railway.
We married, and spent our honeymoon on a visit to the Falls at Niagara. Coming back from our honeymoon, we went into housekeeping at Cleveland, but we did not remain there long. We stayed only until the section of the line of which Mr. Dyson had charge was finished.
Then he received another appointment—that of engineer to theSt.Louis Railway, known as the Iron Mountain Road, and went to reside there. He subsequently became the engineer of other lines then in course of construction, and his last engagement in America was as superintendent engineer of the magnificent bridge which spans the Mississippi, and here his health broke down.
He had been often compelled to lead a very rough kind of life, and it began to tell. His duties made that necessary, for the railways on which he was engaged opened up quite new country. The life, however, had many charms for me. I am a good hand at driving, and am fond of horses. I always used to drive Mr. Dyson. He used often to say that I could drive better than he, and he would sit back in his buggy—they call them buggies there—whilst I held the reins and sent the horses along.
I liked the excitement of driving him to and from his work, and especially when we were in new country, and he was out surveying. I have driven him through forests where there were bears, and over creeks—they call rivers creeks in America—that were swollen by the floods. The horses have often had to swim.
I remember on one occasion sending the horses and the buggy across a river, and then coming over myself on a piece of timber. Of course such a life has some drawbacks, but I was young and strong, and it possessed for me considerable fascination.
My husband loved me and I loved him, and in his company and in driving him about in this wild kind of fashion, I derived much pleasure.
Afraid? Not I. I did not then know what fear was. Besides, I have a good deal of courage—I think I have gone through sufficient (here Mrs. Dyson’s tone was tinged with some sadness) of late to show that—and I always felt safe. To be in positions attendant with danger caused me not fear, but a kind of excitement which, if not always pleasurable, certainly possessed some kind of fascination.
But, as I have said, Mr. Dyson’s health broke down, and he was compelled to return to England. This was about four years ago. We first lived at Tinsley, with Mr. Dyson’s mother; then at Highfield, nearly opposite the police station; and afterwards we took a house in the Alexandra-road, Heeley. Then we went to Darnall, and it was there that my troubles began. But for our going there, Mr. Dyson would probably have been still alive, and I should have been spared all that has happened since.
You will naturally ask how I became acquainted with Peace. It was impossible to avoid becoming acquainted with him. Besides, at that time I did not know the sort of man he really was. He lived the next door but one to us at Darnall, and he used generally to speak to Mr. Dyson in going in and out.
Mr. Dyson was a gentleman, and, of course, when Peace spoke to him he used to reply. He introduced himself, and would have you to talk with him whether you would or no. At first Mr. Dyson did not object, and Peace became a constant visitor to the house. Our impression of him at that time was that he was really a nice old man. I suppose you have heard how plausible he was? He was plausibility itself. To hear him talk, you would have thought him the most harmless of men.
To us he appeared to be simply a picture-framer in anything but good circumstances, for he had but little business to do, and his wife used to go out every morning washing bottles. We considered they were poor. Mr. Dyson soon began to tire of him. He very soon began to show that he was anything but a gentleman. Mr. Dyson could not stand that; and, besides, he had seen something which disgusted him—some obscene pictures which Peace had shown him. He said he didn’t like a man of that kind, and wouldn’t have anything more to do with him.
Besides, another thing greatly repelled Mr. Dyson. It was this. Peace wanted to take him to Sheffield to show him what he called the “sights of the town.” Mr. Dyson knew what that meant, and being, as I have said, a gentleman, he became much disgusted at Peace and annoyed that he should force his company upon us. My husband had been used to other society. But we couldn’t get rid of him. We were bound to show him common politeness. Though he must have seen that we didn’t want his company, he forced himself upon us.
He would, for instance, drop in just when we were sitting down to tea, and we were compelled almost to ask him to have a cup. His constant visits to the house at last became intolerable to us, and then it was that my husband placed his card in the garden, desiring Peace not to annoy him or his family.
When he found that he could no longer gain access to the house, Peace became awfully impudent. He would, for instance, stand on the doorstep and listen through the keyhole to what we were talking about, or look through the window at us. His persecutions at this time became almost unbearable. He did everything he could to annoy us. I was not afraid of him, and should have taken the law into my own hands, but my husband would not hear of such a thing. He always advised me to keep quiet.
Amanuensis: It is impossible for you, Mrs. Dyson, to be unaware of the rumours afloat as to the terms on which you and Peace were at Darnall. Would you like to say anything about that matter?
Mrs. Dyson: That is just what I want to speak about. (Here Mrs. Dyson spoke under some emotion and her face became quite flushed with excitement.) That’s what I want to speak about, and I want you to do me the justice of writing down just what I state.
The public of Sheffield—the vulgar public I mean—have been prejudiced against me. I have been tried in every shape and form since I came over here to give evidence, and my character and credibility have been made light of. But I want the people of Sheffield to see that I am a different kind of person from that which they have taken me for. They have classed me with Peace and Mrs. Thompson, and others of his gang, but I wish to show them that I am far superior to any of them.
Mr. Dyson did not take a stronger disgust to Peace than I did. In fact, I think I was the first to express my disgust. I could not stand his impudence and the way in which he went on. I had not been used to such society as his proved to be, and I rebelled against it. I can hardly describe all that he did to annoy us after he was informed that he was not wanted at our house. He would come and stand outside the window at night and look in, leering all the while; and he would come across you at all turns and leer in your face in a manner that was truly frightful. How is it that having been so friendly with me and Mr. Dyson, Peace should conceive so intense a dislike to us? Well, I admit that’s a matter which has never been clearly stated, and I want it clearly stating now. His object was to obtain power over me, and, having done that, to make me an accomplice of his.
I have told you that when I knew him first I thought him to be a picture-framer, and nothing more. Since then, however, I have learnt a good deal, and much that was difficult to understand has been made plain.
He wanted me to leave my husband. “What should I do that for?” I said, “If you will only go to Manchester,” he answered, “I will take a store (American for shop) for you, and will spend £50 in fitting it up. You shall have a cigar store, or a picture store. You are a fine-looking woman. You look well in fine things, and I will send you fine clothes and jewellery, and if you wanted to pawn them it would be easy. The pawnbroker would think everything all right. Suppose for instance, you had a grand pair of bracelets on, all you would have to do would be to go into the pawnbroker’s, take them off your wrist, and say, ‘I want to pawn these things.’” He also said, “If you will only do what I want you, there shall not be such another lady in England as you may be.”
At the time I couldn’t understand what was his object. Of course, I see it plain enough now. At that time I didn’t know he was a burglar. But I was suspicious.
I remember on one occasion he offered me a sealskin jacket and several yards of silk. If I had accepted them I should have been quite in his power. I declined his present, and told him that if he had a sealskin jacket and some silk to spare, he had better make a present of them to his wife and daughter.
I also told him that they wanted them much more than I did, and that if I desired to have a sealskin jacket, I would wait for it until my husband bought it, and that if he couldn’t I was content to go without.
Some time afterwards he offered me a gold watch; but I wouldn’t have it. That, of course, was stolen. I consider that he offered me these presents as one means of getting me into his power.
I remember, when he was speaking to me about Manchester, he said, “If you will only go, I’ll fix you up there nice. You will have a splendid business, and will live like a lady.”
“Thank you,” I said, “I always have lived like one, and shall continue to do so quite independently of you.” I was getting downright mad with him, because of his constantly bothering me.
What he wanted me to go to Manchester for was to pass off his stolen goods—at least that is my opinion. When he found he could not succeed by fair means, then he tried what threats and persecution would do. He once came into my house, and said as I would not do what he wanted, he would annoy and torment me to the end of the world.
“Don’t you ever come into my house again,” I said, “or ever darken its doors.”
But it was no use. He still came whenever he could get in, and when he couldn’t he watched for me and followed me wherever I went. I have known him go to the railway station and say to the booking clerk after I had taken my ticket, “Give me a ticket for where she’s going.” That’s how it was he followed me to Mansfield, and then came into the same house there where I and my companion were staying.
That was, too, how it was that he was seen with me in the streets. So it was as regards his being with me in the fair ground, about which so much has been made.
I went to the fair with a neighbour and her children, and when we got into the photographic saloon my intention was to have the children photographed. I had no intention whatever of having myself taken with Peace, but he stood behind my chair at the time my likeness was taken. That was quite unknown to me, though, at the time.
You can have no idea, unless you know the man, how he persecuted one, and attempted to get me within his power.
Once I was terribly frightened at him. I was busy, I remember, doing something in the kitchen, and my back was turned to the door. Hearing a slight noise, I turned round, and then I saw Peace standing just inside the door. The expression on his face was something dreadful. It was almost fiendish—devilish. He had a revolver in his right hand, and he held it up towards me and said, in an excited and threatening manner, “Now, will you go to Manchester? Now will you go to Manchester?” I did not shriek, but I cried out “No, never! What do you take me for?”
Finding that I was firm, he dropped his hand and went out; but I can assure you that I was frightened at the time. He had a way of creeping and crawling about, and of coming upon you unawares; and I cannot describe to you how he seemed to wriggle himself inside the door, or the terrible expression on his face. He seemed more like an evil spirit than a man.
He turned against me solely because he could not make me do as he wanted. He thought he could handle me as he liked, that I was a weak sort of a woman, and could be got over like others who have been associated with him; but he found he was mistaken. I was terribly tried by him, though, and at last I was frightened—I don’t deny it.
There have been times when I haven’t feared him, and when I should have thrashed him if Mr. Dyson would have allowed me. I once did give him a good hiding, because he had insulted and annoyed me, but perhaps I had better not say much about that now. I used to be especially afraid of him at nights, because he had a habit of continually prowling about the house, and of turning up suddenly. He would, too, assume all sorts of disguises. He used to boast how effectively he could disguise himself; and I was afraid of his coming in some guise or other at night, and carrying out his threats.
I never saw such determination and persistency as his. It seems to me there was scarcely anything which he couldn’t accomplish if only he was determined. The only way to get rid of him was to knock him down, as I once did.
Determined as he was one way, I was equally determined the other, and that was why he never succeeded with me. He once made use of this expression to me, “I don’t care how independent you are, I’ll get hold of you some way or other.” But I said as firmly as I could, “Never!” and so I have always said.
The statement is not true that your husband was jealous of you and Peace, and so decided to go to Bannercross? Why should he be jealous? There was no cause; for all this time that we were at Darnall I was doing my best to withstand Peace. I know what has been thought and what has been said. (Here Mrs. Dyson spoke excitedly and in a tone of much bitterness.) I think no woman has ever been tried as I have.
Why, ever since I came from America to give evidence, they have been trying me, not Peace. I want the public to understand that I have been tested to the utmost, and yet what has been proved against me? Why absolutely nothing.
All that has been said about myself and Peace is a lie, and I wish it to be put down as alie. If you could draw three strokes under the word, so as to make it plainer I should like it done. I wanted this opportunity of saying what I have on this matter. I had no one to speak up for me, I had to speak for myself. I deny what has been said and imputed with regard to Peace and myself, and I dare and defy any one to say with truth that my conduct with regard to him was anything but what was right. We went to Bannercross simply because we were afraid of Peace. What became of Peace after the warrant was taken out I never knew, except that I heard he had gone over to Manchester.
He suddenly disappeared, and I did not see him again until on the very day that our furniture was being removed to Bannercross. I and my husband saw him coming out of our new house there. So annoyed and irritated was I at this that I really should have caught hold of him, and held him until a policeman could have been fetched. But my husband would not hear of such a thing. I really felt quite mad.
This was on the 25th October, and I did not see him again till the night of the murder. There is no truth whatever in the imputation that I was with Peace on the day and night previous to the murder. I say I never saw him from the time of his coming out of our house on the 25th of October till I saw him, pistol in hand, standing outside the closet door on the night of the murder. To say that I did is an abominable and wicked lie. But no one can really say that I did.
It is true certain persons were brought at the trial, but could they say that they had seen me? No, not one of them: and I defy them to say it.
I am aware, as you say, that when I was asked if Peace did not follow me into the “Stag” Inn on the night before the murder, I replied that I could almost swear it wasn’t Peace. I know also that it seemed as if my evidence at that point was weak. But I didn’t want to swear a lie.
Peace had been in the habit of so disguising himself and of following me about that I should not have been surprised if it had been him. That was why I answered Mr. Lockwood in the way I did. It certainly was not Peace. Of that I am confident.
It is not true, as it was imputed, that I was in the fair with Peace on the day before my husband was shot. I simply passed along the road from the Victoria Station and looked over the wall. Neither is it true that I went with him to any dining-rooms, or to a public-house. That is a lie altogether.
The only place I called at was at Mr. Muddiman’s shop, at the top of Pinstone-street, and I went from there to the “Stag” at Sharrow.
If I were to die this minute, I am altogether innocent of seeing Peace or of having anything to do with him from the time of our going to Bannercross till the night of the murder. I cannot put the matter plainer than that, and I want it putting plainly.
As to the letters which Peace dropped on the night of the murder, I say as I have always said—that I never wrote them. They were base forgeries, and were written with an object. I cannot say whether Peace wrote them himself or whether they were written by members of his family, because they, as well as he, tried to get me into their power. But I know what the object was. It was to endeavour to compromise me.
Yet how much has been said about those letters, and how I have been maligned in regard to them! I don’t think any woman has been tried as I have, or has been compelled to go through so much. But I have been able to stand up through it all, because I have spoken nothing but the truth. If the letters were mine, the handwriting could have been easily proved. Wasn’t I tried in court about it? Didn’t they ask me not once, but twice, to give specimens of my handwriting? If the letters were mine, they could then easily have proved it.
The letters must have been manufactured for a purpose. I don’t see how else they could have come into existence. So far from writing to Peace after the murder, I never wrote to him in my life. I never heard anything about Peace from the night of the murder until Walsh came over to Cleveland to fetch me.
I was staying at my sister’s house there, and Walsh went direct to the house. When told that he had come, I knew at once what he wanted me for, and to his question whether I was willing to go back with him to give evidence against Peace, I said “I would go back if I had to walk on my head all the way.”
That’s just what I said, and it will show how willing I was to give evidence.
Of course, at the time I didn’t know what I should have to pass through, but if it were to come all over again I would do the same. My friends didn’t want me to come, and did all they could to dissuade me. I also received a threatening letter from Sheffield. But I was determined to come. My desire was that Peace should receive the justice he so richly deserved.
I didn’t really know that Peace was a burglar until after the murder. If I had he would never have entered our doors. But what I know now explains a good deal.
For instance, when we were out walking together, if I happened to look into a shop window, he would say to me, “Is there anything there you would like? If there is I will get it for you before morning.” He would say that if I looked into a jeweller’s or a draper’s shop. I did not know what he meant then, but I do now.
My suspicions were aroused, for I used to see him leave his house at Darnall in the evenings with a little satchel under his arm, and he would come back early in the morning carrying a large bundle. The satchel, I suppose, contained his housebreaking implements. He often used to go to Manchester with this satchel.
He came to my door one morning just as he was going to Manchester. He then had his satchel with him. Looking into the room where I was, he said, “I’ll have you alive or dead. I’ll have you, or else I’ll torment you till the end of your life.”
On another occasion, when I had defied him, he said, “I’ll make you so that neither man nor woman shall look at you, and then I’ll have you to myself.”
I answered, “Never. What can you do? What are you capable of?”
“No matter,” he replied “I’ll do it.”
He was always wanting to get my photograph, and as I wouldn’t give him it, he or some member of his family stole one out of a locket which I had. It was afterwards copied by a photographer in Sheffield, and I have fancied since that he wanted to get my features transferred in some way or other to one of his obscene pictures and so disgrace me.
I cannot understand in any other way what he meant by saying that he would make me so that neither man nor woman should look at me.
My opinion is that Peace is a perfect demon—not a man. I am told that since he has been sentenced to death he has become a changed character. That I don’t believe. The place to which the wicked go is not bad enough for him. I think its occupants, bad as they might be, are too good to be where he is. No matter where he goes, I am satisfied there will be hell. Not even a Shakespeare could adequately paint such a man as he has been. My life-long regret will be that I ever knew him.