The evidence of railway officials proved that a train had left Slough at 7.43 and reached Paddington at 8.40. There was also a train down at 10.45, which arrived at 11.43. It was said in evidence that the interval of two hours was quite sufficient to allow Smith to go into the City by the Metropolitan Railway, commit the crime in Cannon Street, and return viâ Bishop’s Road to Paddington. Further evidence against the man Smith consisted of spots upon his coat which were believed to be blood-stains, but which he accounted for by alleging that he had cut himself in shaving.

Here was a man of indifferent character, an idle ne’er-do-well, known to have had dealings with the murdered woman, against whom very clear circumstantial evidence had been adduced. He was shown to have said he was going to London; he was seen close to the station where a train was on the point of starting for London; he was recognised by a respectable woman at just the time he could have reached the house in Cannon Street had he travelled up to Paddington as alleged, and added to all this there were the blood-stains on his coat.

Yet the whole case broke down on the production of the most complete and unquestionable alibi. It was proved beyond all question that Smith did not go to London from Slough by the 7.43 train. The prisoner admitted that he had walked in the direction of Slough Station with the idea of meeting a friend. But he was certainly in company with a man named Harris in Eton Square a little before 6.30, and the two remained together until ten minutes past ten.

A number of other witnesses corroborated this statement—a brazier, a photographer, a gardener, a bootmaker, and so on. Ten or twelve men in all had had Smith under their eyes through the whole of the time that he was supposed to be killing the woman in Cannon Street. One had been drinking with him, three others had played cards with him, an alehouse-keeper’s wife had served him with beer after 11 p.m.

It was altogether absurd to suppose that these witnesses had combined to perjure themselves on behalf of Smith. But even if such a combination had been possible, although no motive for it had been produced, there was other evidence that spoke unconsciously for the prisoner. If Smith had really committed the crime he would never have denied that he went to London, as he did deny it; he would have made some excuse for his going, feeling sure that the fact would be discovered. Another curious fact was that, as he was undoubtedly at Eton at 7.30, he must have gone at great speed to catch the 7.43 train at Slough, a full mile distant. There was not the least necessity for it either, as the Windsor Station was only a few yards from where he had been seen. A defence of this kind was perfectly unanswerable; the judge summed up entirely in favour of the prisoner, and directed the jury to find him not merely “Not guilty,” but actually innocent of the crime.

I cannot leave this interesting case, in which there was nearly a miscarriage of justice from mistaken circumstantial evidence, without relating a curious fact within my own knowledge that grew out of this murder. In December, 1869, when I was acting as Controller of the Convict Prison at Gibraltar, a convict came before the Visitors who appeared under strong emotion, and who told me in a broken voice, with tears in his eyes, that he wished to give himself up as one of the Cannon Street murderers. I cannot remember the man’s name, but I will call him X. After hearing what he had to say, the Visitors asked him what had induced him to make this confession. “Because,” said he, “I didn’t do the job alone. My accomplice, Y” (as I will call him), “has just come out in the last draft from England. I have not yet spoken to him, but I am greatly afraid that he might forestall me in my confession.” The man spoke with such evident contrition and good faith that the Visitors felt bound to accept his story; but they sent for the other, meaning to confront them.

Y started violently when he came into our presence and saw X standing there, but he positively denied his complicity in the murder. For some time, too, he refused to acknowledge that he knew X, and then followed a strange altercation between the two, X earnestly imploring Y to make a clean breast of it, as he himself had done; Y as stoutly repudiating all connection with the matter. Just when we had made up our minds to dismiss both the men and report the case home for instructions, Y’s better nature seemed to triumph, and he admitted thus tardily that he had been concerned in the murder of Mrs. Milson. Our next step was to order both men into separate and solitary confinement until instructions could be received from home. We fully expected to hear in due course that both men were to be sent home to stand their trial for the Cannon Street murder.

I am not ashamed to confess that we had been completely humbugged. A full and searching inquiry had been instituted by the Home Office authorities, more particularly into the antecedents and movements of the two convicts, and it was established beyond all doubt that neither of them could have possibly committed the crime, seeing that both were in custody for another offence on the day of the murder. I am free to admit that in the many years I have since spent in the charge and control of criminals, I have been very loath, after this experience, to accept confessions, although I have had many made to me. Mine is not a singular experience, as most police and prison officials will say. Indeed, the general public themselves must have noticed that there are few mysterious crimes committed which are not confessed to by persons who could not possibly have been guilty. In the case of X and Y, the whole trick had been devised for the simple purpose of escaping daily labour and gaining a few weeks’ complete idleness in the cells.

False confessions, it may be added, are a frequent source of trouble to the police. Whenever some great criminal mystery has shocked the public mind, silly people, whether from constant brooding over the fact or from sheer imbecility, are driven to surrender themselves as the criminals. It will be remembered that at the time of the Whitechapel murders numbers of people stood self-confessed as the perpetrators of these crimes, eager to take upon themselves the criminal identity of the mysterious “Jack the Ripper.” I have recorded elsewhere[7] a curious case in which a lady of good position, married, having many children and a perfectly happy home, became possessed with the idea that she had committed murder—that of a soldier in garrison in the town where she lived. At length she wrote to Scotland Yard, and made full confession of her crime, adding that she meant to arrive in London next day, where she was prepared to submit herself to arrest, trial, and whatever penalty might be imposed. All she asked was that she might not be separated from her children, and that if they could not accompany her to gaol they might at least be permitted to visit her frequently. Next day she arrived as she had threatened, and drove up to Scotland Yard in a cab, herself and children inside, her portmanteaux and a huge bath on the box. There she sat, and positively refused to move anywhere except to gaol. The police authorities, after vainly arguing with her, were on the point of taking charge of her as a wandering lunatic, and sending her home, but the Assistant Commissioner hit upon a happy device for getting rid of her. This was to tell her that if she went to gaol she must be separated absolutely from her children. If, however, she would sign a paper promising to appear whenever called upon, she might remain with her children in her own home. The ruse was successful; she signed the promise, and returned as she had come.