The collateral circumstances were then proved by a variety of witnesses, whose examination occupied the court during several hours.
Ruthven, the officer, deposited on the table a pistol and a pistol-key, a knife, a muslin handkerchief spotted with blood, a shirt similarly stained, and a waistcoat, into the pockets of which bloody hands had been thrust. A coat and a hat marked with blood were also produced, all of which belonged to Thurtell. Ruthven then produced several articles belonging to the deceased—the gun, the carpet bag, and his clothes.
Symmonds the constable, when sworn, took from his pocket a white paper, which he carefully unfolded, and produced to the court the pistol with which the murder had been committed. It was a blue steel-barrelled pistol, with brass about the handle; the pan was open, as the firing had left it, and was smeared with the black of gunpowder and the dingy stain of blood. The barrel was bloody; and in the muzzle a piece of tow was thrust, to keep in the horrid contents, the murdered man’s brains. Against the back of the pan were the short curled hairs, of a silver hue, which had been dug from the dead man’s head, and were glued to the pan firmly with crusted blood.
We shall now give the evidence of Probert and his wife, who were called, and which discloses the circumstances attending the murder, and the disposition of the property of the deceased, with more exact minuteness than the statement of the learned counsel. Probert’s evidence was as follows:
“I occupied a cottage in Gill’s Hill Lane for six months before October last; my family consisted of Mrs. Probert, a servant maid, and a boy. In the month of October, Miss Noyes lived with us, and two children of Thomas Thurtell, a brother of the prisoner’s. I have been for some time past acquainted with the prisoner John Thurtell; and he had often been down to my cottage sporting with me: he knew the road to my cottage, and all the roads thereabouts well. Gill’s Hill Lane, in which my cottage stood, is out of the high road to St. Alban’s, at Radlett; my cottage was about a quarter of a mile from the high road, and fourteen miles and a quarter from Tyburn turnpike. In the latter end of October, the prisoner, John Thurtell, lodged at Tetsall’s, the Coach and Horses, in Conduit-street; Thomas Thurtell lodged there also. On Friday the 24th of that month, I dined at Tetsall’s with John Thurtell and Hunt; and Thomas Thurtell and Noyes were also there. After dinner, Thurtell said something to me about money, and I paid him 5l. which I had borrowed of him four days before. He then said, ‘I think I shall go down to your cottage to-night; are you going down?’ I said that I was, and he asked me to drive Hunt down with me, which I promised to do. Some further conversation took place, and he said, ‘I expect a friend to meet me this evening a little after five; and if he comes, I shall go down. If I have an opportunity, I mean to do him; for he is a man that has robbed me of several hundreds. I have told Hunt where to stop; I shall want him about a mile and a half beyond Elstree.’ He then desired me to give Hunt, who had just come in, a pound, and I did so; and Thurtell told him, in case I should not go, to hire a horse and to go to Elstree, saying, ‘You know where to stop for me.’ Hunt made no answer. At a little after five o’clock, Thurtell started from the Coach and Horses in a gig. He drove a dark grey horse; and I went away some time afterwards with Hunt in my vehicle. In Oxford-street Hunt got out and bought a loin of pork for supper; and at the end of Oxford-street he remarked, ‘This is the place where Jack is to take up his friend.’ We then drove on, and about four miles from London we overtook Thurtell, who was driving, accompanied by another man. Hunt said, ‘There they are; drive by and take no notice. It’s all right; Jack has got him.’ We, in consequence, passed on; and when we got to the Baldfaced Stag, about seven miles from London, and two miles short of Edgeware, we stopped. It was then about a quarter before seven o’clock. On our way I asked Hunt who the man was who was in the gig with Thurtell; but he answered, ‘You are not to know his name; you never saw him; you know nothing of him.’ I went into the Baldfaced Stag, as I supplied the house with liquor; but Hunt walked on, saying, ‘I won’t go in, because I have not returned those horse-cloths I borrowed.’ I stopped about twenty minutes; and then I drove on, and overtook Hunt at about a quarter of a mile from Edgeware. I took him up, and we drove on to Mr. Clarke’s at Edgeware, and there we had a glass of brandy and water. A little further on we bought half a bushel of corn for the horse, and put it in the gig; and then we went on to the Artichoke, kept by Mr. Field. It wanted now only about eight minutes of eight; and Hunt said, ‘I wonder where Thurtell is; he can’t have passed us.’ We pulled up at the Artichoke, and had four or five glasses of brandy and water; and we stayed there more than three quarters of an hour, waiting for Thurtell to come up with us. We then drove on; and at Mr. Phillimore’s Lodge, which is about a mile and a half further on, Hunt said that ‘he should remain there for John Thurtell;’ and he got out on the road. I drove through Radlett, towards my own cottage; and when I was within about a hundred yards of it, I met Thurtell on foot. He cried out, ‘Hallo! where is Hunt?’ and I answered that I had left him at Phillimore’s Lodge, waiting for him. He replied, ‘I don’t want him now; for I have done the trick.’ He said that he had killed his friend that he had brought down with him; he had ridded the country of a villain, who had robbed him of three or four hundred pounds!’ I said, ‘Good God! I hope you have not killed the man?’ and he said, ‘It’s of no consequence to you, you don’t know him; you never saw him: do you go back and fetch Hunt—you know best where you left him!’ I returned to the place where I left Hunt, and found him near the same spot. Thurtell did not go. I said to Hunt when I took him up, ‘John Thurtell is at my house—he has killed his friend;’ and Hunt said, ‘Thank God, I am out of it; I am glad he has done it without me: I can’t think where the devil he could pass; I never saw him pass anywhere, but I’m glad I’m out of it.’ He said, ‘This is the place where we were to have done it’ (meaning near Phillimore’s Lodge). I asked him who the man was, and he said, ‘You don’t know him, and I shall not tell you;’ he said it was a man that had robbed Jack of several hundred pounds, and they meant to have it back again. By that time I had reached my own house; John Thurtell stood at the gate as we drove into the yard. Hunt said, ‘Thurtell, where could you pass me?’ Thurtell replied, ‘It don’t matter where I passed you; I’ve done the trick—I have done it. But what the devil did you let Probert stop drinking at his d—d public-houses for, when you knew what was to be done?’ Hunt said, ‘I made sure you were behind, or else we should not have stopped.’ Having taken the loin of pork in the kitchen, and given it to the servant to cook for supper, I went into the parlour and introduced Hunt to Mrs. Probert; he had never been there before. Thurtell followed immediately; we had stopped in the yard a short time before we went in, and when I spoke to my wife, I told her that we were going to Mr. Nicholls’s to ask for a day’s shooting. We then went out together, Thurtell carrying a sack and a cord with him, which he had taken from the gig. We went down the lane, and I carried the lantern. As we went along, Thurtell said, ‘I began to think, Hunt, you would not come;’ when Hunt answered, ‘We made sure you were behind.’ I walked foremost; and Thurtell said, ‘Probert, he is just beyond the second turning.’ When he came to the second turning, he said, ‘It’s a little further on,’ and he at length said, ‘This is the place.’ We then looked about for a pistol and knife, but could not find either; we got over the hedge and there found the body lying; the head was bound up in a shawl, I think a red one. Thurtell searched the deceased’s pockets, and found a pocket-book containing three five-pound notes, a memorandum-book, and some silver. He said, ‘This is all he has got; I took the watch and purse when I killed him.’ The body was then put into the sack head foremost; the sack came to the knees, and was tied with a cord; we left the body there, and went towards home. On our way Thurtell explained how he had killed him. He said, ‘When I first shot him, he jumped out of the gig and ran like the devil, singing out that ‘he would deliver all he had, if I’d only spare his life.’ I jumped out of the gig and ran after him: I got him down, and began to cut his throat, as I thought, close to the jugular vein; but I could not stop his singing out: I then jammed the pistol into his head; I gave it a turn round; and then I knew I had done him.’ Turning to Hunt, he said, ‘Joe, you ought to have been with me, for I thought at one time he would have got the better of me. Those d—d pistols are like spits, they are of no use.’ Hunt remarked, that he should have thought one of the pistols would have killed him dead, but that at all events he had plenty of ‘tools’ with him; and then we entered the house and had our supper. In the course of the evening Thurtell produced a handsome gold watch and seals, and a gold chain. He offered the chain to Mrs. Probert, saying, that it was more fit for a lady than a gentleman: but she at first refused it, although after a time she consented to accept it as a present. He then put the watch and seals into his pocket. A proposal was then made, that Hunt and Thurtell should sleep in Miss Noyes’ bed, and that Miss Noyes should sleep with Thomas Thurtell’s children; but they refused to consent to such a course, and declared that they would rather sit up and take a turn on the sofa. Hunt then sang two or three songs, and Mrs. Probert and Miss Noyes went to bed between twelve and one o’clock. When they had retired, Thurtell produced a pocket-book, a purse, and a memorandum-book. The purse contained sovereigns, but I cannot say how many. He took three five-pound notes from the pocket-book, and giving a note and sovereign to Hunt, and a similar sum to me, said, ‘That’s your share of the blunt.’ The papers and books were burned, to avoid any discovery, and then the carpet bag was examined. Its contents were replaced, and, as well as the backgammon board and the gun, were taken away on the ensuing day, by Hunt and Thurtell, in a gig. When this examination was completed, Thurtell said, ‘I mean to have Barber Beaumont after this, and Woods.’ The former is a director to an insurance company, with whom Thurtell had had some dispute; and the latter kept company with Miss Noyes. A general conversation then took place, the particulars of which I cannot recollect; and he may have mentioned other names, but I do not now remember them. At length Thurtell said, ‘Well, Joe, we must go and get the body, and put it in the pond, meaning the pond in my garden. I said, ‘By G—d, you shan’t put it in my pond, or you will be my ruin;’ but at length they induced me to consent, Thurtell saying, ‘Had it not been for Hunt’s mistake, I should have killed him in the other lane, and then returned to town and inquired of his friends why he had not come.’ The two prisoners then went out together, and I waited for their coming back; but in a short time they returned, and Hunt said, ‘Probert, he’s too heavy; we cannot carry him; we have only brought him a little way.’ Thurtell invited me to accompany them, and said, that he would put the bridle on his horse to fetch the body; and then we all went out together. We took the horse from the stable, and Thurtell and I went and fetched the body, while Hunt remained at the gate. The horse having been put into the stable again, we dragged the body down the garden, and putting some stones into the sack, we threw it into the pond. The man’s feet were then found to be, perhaps, half a foot above the water; and Thurtell got a cord, threw it over the legs, and giving me one end, while he held the other, we drew the body into the centre of the pond, where it sunk out of sight. We all three then returned to the cottage, and I went to bed almost immediately. I found my wife up. Next morning I came down about nine o’clock. Thurtell said, in presence of Hunt, that they had been down the lane, to look for the pistol and knife, but neither could be found. They asked me to go down the lane and seek them, in the course of the day; which I promised to do: but when I went down the lane, I saw a man at work near the spot. That morning they went away after breakfast. On Sunday they came down again; and Thomas Thurtell and Mr. Noyes came also. Hunt brought a new spade with him. He said it was to dig a grave for the deceased. Hunt returned with the gig after setting down Thomas Thurtell, and brought out John Thurtell and Noyes. Hunt was very dirtily dressed when he came down, and went up stairs to change. When he came down, he was well dressed—in almost new clothes; and he said the clothes belonged to the deceased: he told me he had thrown a new spade over the hedge into my garden, and I found it there afterwards. John Thurtell and I walked to the pond. He asked me, if the body had risen? I said no; and he said it would lie there for a month. In the afternoon Hewart called, and I went with him to Mr. Nicholls’s. On my return, I told Thurtell and Hunt that Mr. Nicholls had told me, that some one had fired a pistol or gun off, in Gill’s Hill Lane, on Friday night, and that there were cries of murder, as though some one had been killed. He said it was about eight o’clock, and added, ‘I suppose it was done by some of your friends, to frighten each other.’ John Thurtell said, ‘Then I am booked.’ I said, ‘I am afraid it’s a bad job, as Mr. Nicholls seems to know all about it; I am very sorry it ever happened here, as I fear it will be my ruin.’ Thurtell said, ‘Never mind, Probert, they can do nothing with you;’ and I declared that the body must be immediately taken out of my pond again. Thurtell answered, ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Probert: after you are all gone to bed, Joe and I will take the body up and bury it.’ But I told them that would be just as bad, if they buried it in the garden. John Thurtell said, ‘I’ll bury him where you nor no one else can find him.’ As John Thurtell was going into the parlour, Hunt said, ‘Probert, they can do nothing with you or me, even if they do find it out, as we were neither of us at the murder.’ Thurtell and Hunt sat up all that night: I, Noyes, and Thomas Thurtell went to bed. Thomas Thurtell slept with his children. In the morning, John Thurtell and Hunt said that they had gone to dig a grave, but the dogs were barking all night, and they thought some one was about the ground; and he added, ‘Joe and I will come down to-night and take him quite away, and that will be better for you altogether.’ Thomas Thurtell and Hunt, and my boy, Addis, went away in one chaise after breakfast and John Thurtell, Thomas Noyes, and Miss Noyes in another. The boy was sent to town to be out of the way. That evening John Thurtell and Hunt came again in a gig about nine: they took supper; after supper, John Thurtell and I went to the stable, leaving Hunt talking to Mrs. Probert. Thurtell said, ‘Come, let’s get the body up; while Hunt is talking to Mrs. Probert, she will not suspect.’ We went to the pond, and got the body up; we took it out of the sack, and cut all the clothes from it, and then we returned to the house, leaving the body naked on the grass. After a short time we all three went into the stables and took out Thurtell’s gig; and Thurtell having produced from it a new sack and a cord, we put the body into the former, and then Hunt and Thurtell put it into the gig; but I refused to have anything more to do with it: they then drove away with it. On the ensuing morning I destroyed the clothes which we had cut from the body, and subsequently on the same day I was taken into custody.”
Mrs. Probert, on being examined, corroborated the testimony of her husband with regard to all the circumstances which occurred in the cottage up to the time of her going to bed on the Friday night. She then went on to say—“On my going up stairs, I did not go to bed directly, and my curiosity being aroused at my husband remaining below, I went to the head of the stairs to listen. I leaned over the banisters, and I heard a whispering going on, and what I took to be a trying on of clothes. The first words which I could distinguish were, ‘This, I think, will fit you very well.’ There was then a sound as of the rustling of papers on the table; and then they seemed to be thrown on the fire and burned. I afterwards went into my own chamber, and subsequently hearing something in the garden, I looked out. I saw two men go from the parlour to the stable; and then they led a horse out, and opening the yard gate, they took the horse into the lane. Some time after that, I again heard them in the garden; and there seemed to be something heavy dragged along the path. It appeared to be dragged in a direction from the stable to the garden, along the dark walk. I looked out, and had a view of it as they took it out of the dark walk, and it looked to be in a sack. After this I heard a noise, which sounded to me like a heap of stones thrown into a pit—I can describe it in no other way. In addition to the conversation which I have already detailed as having taken place in the parlour, I also heard a voice, which I think was Hunt’s, say, ‘Let us take a five-pound note each.’ I did not hear Thurtell say anything; but then I heard my husband say, ‘We must say that there was a hare thrown up in the gig, on the cushion—we must tell the boy so in the morning.’ I next heard a voice, I can’t exactly tell whose say, ‘We had better be off to town by four or five o’clock in the morning;’ and then, I think, John Thurtell it was, who said, ‘We had better not go before eight or nine o’clock;’ and the parlour door then shut. I heard John Thurtell say also (I think it was his voice), ‘Holding shall be next.’ I rather think it was Hunt who next spoke; he asked, ‘Has he (Holding) got money?’ John Thurtell replied, ‘It is not money I want, it is revenge; it is Holding who has ruined my friend here.’ I did not at first understand who this friend was; I believe it meant Mr. Probert, my husband. I cannot say whether Holding had anything to do in the transactions of my husband’s bankruptcy. ‘It was Holding,’ said John Thurtell, ‘who ruined my friend here, and destroyed my peace of mind.’ My husband came to bed about half-past one or two o’clock; I believe it was; I did not know the hour exactly.”
The whole of the evidence in support of the case for the prosecution having now been adduced, the learned judge inquired of the jury, whether they conceived that it would be better at once to proceed to the conclusion of the case; or whether they would prefer that the defence of the prisoners should be postponed until the morning. The jury expressed their wish that the case should be at once concluded; but at the desire of the prisoner Thurtell, who respectfully pressed on their attention the long and harassing time he had stood at that bar, and begged for a night’s cessation to recruit his strength, previous to making his defence, the court adjourned, the jury being locked up until the following morning.
The trial then proceeded, and Ruthven and Thomas Thurtell being recalled to be examined on some trifling points, in a short time Mr. Justice Park informed John Thurtell, that he was ready to hear any observations he had to make.
The prisoner then commenced his defence;—speaking in a deep, measured, and unshaken tone, and using a studied and theatrical action.
“My Lord, and Gentlemen of the Jury—Under greater difficulties than ever man encountered, I now rise to vindicate my character and defend my life. I have been supported in this hour of trial, by the knowledge that my cause is heard before an enlightened tribunal, and that the free institutions of my country have placed my destiny in the hands of twelve men, who are uninfluenced by prejudice, and unawed by power. I have been represented by the press, which carries its benefits or curses on rapid wings from one extremity of the kingdom to the other, as a man more depraved, more gratuitously and habitually profligate and cruel, than has ever appeared in modern times. I have been held up to the world as the perpetrator of a murder, under circumstances of greater aggravation, of more cruel and premeditated atrocity, than it ever before fell to the lot of man to have seen or heard of. I have been held forth to the world as a depraved, heartless, remorseless, prayerless villain, who had seduced my friend into a sequestered path, merely in order to despatch him with the greater security—as a snake who had crept into his bosom only to strike a sure blow—as a monster, who, after the perpetration of a deed from which the hardest heart recoils with horror, and at which humanity stands aghast, washed away the remembrance of my guilt in the midst of riot and debauchery. You, gentlemen, must have read the details, which have been daily, I may say, hourly published regarding me. It would be requiring more than the usual virtue of our nature to expect that you should entirely divest your minds of those feelings which such relations must have excited; but I am satisfied, that as far as it is possible for men to enter into a grave investigation with minds unbiassed, and judgments unimpaired, after the calumnies with which the public has been deluged—I say, I am satisfied, that with such minds and such judgments, you have this day assumed your sacred office. The horrible guilt which has been attributed to me is such as could not have resulted from custom, but must have been the innate principle of my infant mind, and must have ‘grown with my growth, and strengthened with my strength.’ But I will call before you gentlemen whose characters are unimpeachable, and whose testimony must be above suspicion, who will tell you, that the time was, when my bosom overflowed with all the kindly feelings; and that even my failings were those of an improvident generosity, and an unsuspecting friendship. Beware then, gentlemen, of an anticipated verdict. Do not suffer the reports which you have heard to influence your judgment. Do not believe that a few short years can have reversed the course of nature, and converted the good feelings which I possessed, into that spirit of malignant cruelty, to which only demons can attain. A kind, affectionate, and a religious mother, directed the tender steps of my infancy in the paths of piety and virtue. My rising youth was guided in ‘the way that it should go,’ by a father, whose piety was universally known and believed—whose kindness and charity extended to all who came within the sphere of its influence. After leaving my paternal roof, I entered into the service of our late revered monarch, who was justly entitled the ‘Father of his people.’ You will learn from some of my honourable companions, that while I served under his colours, I never tarnished their lustre. The country which is dear to me I have served; I have fought for her; I have shed my blood for her; I feared not in the open field to shed the blood of her declared foes. But oh! to suppose that on that account I was ready to raise the assassin’s arm against my friend, and with that view to draw him into secret places for his destruction—it is monstrous, horrible, incredible. I have been represented to you as a man who was given to gambling, and the constant companion of gamblers. To this accusation, in some part, my heart with feeling penitence pleads guilty. I have gambled. I have been a gambler, but not for the last three years. During that time I have not attended or betted upon a horse-race, or a fight, or any public exhibition of that nature. If I have erred in these things, half the nobility of the land have been my examples: some of the most enlightened statesmen of the country have been my companions in them. I have indeed been a gambler. I have been an unfortunate one. But whose fortune have I ruined?—whom undone?—My own family have I ruined, undone myself! At this moment I feel the distress of my situation. But, gentlemen, let not this misfortune entice your verdict against me. Beware of your own feelings, when you are told by the highest authority, that the heart of a man is deceitful above all things. Beware, gentlemen, of an anticipated verdict. It is the remark of a very sage and experienced writer of antiquity, that no man becomes wicked all at once. And with this, which I earnestly request you to bear in mind, I proceed to lay before you the whole career of my life. I will not tire you with tedious repetitions, but I will disclose enough of my past life to inform your judgments; leaving it to your clemency to supply whatever little defects you may observe. You will consider my misfortunes, and the situation in which I stand—the deep anxiety that I must feel—the object for which I have to strive. You may suppose something of all this; but oh! no pencil, though dipped in the lines of heaven, can pourtray my feelings at this crisis. Recollect, I again entreat you, my situation, and allow something for the workings of a mind little at ease; and pity and forgive the faults of my address. The conclusion of the late war, which threw its lustre upon the fortunes of the nation generally, threw a gloomy shadow over mine. I entered into a mercantile life with feelings as kind, and with a heart as warm, as I had carried with me in the service. I took the commercial world as if it had been governed by the same regulations as the army. I looked upon merchants as if they had been my mess companions. In the transactions I had with them, my purse was as open, my heart as warm to answer their demands, as they had been to my former associates. I need not say that any fortune, however ample, would have been insufficient to meet such a course of conduct. I, of course, became the subject of a commission of bankruptcy. My solicitor, in whom I had foolishly confided as my most particular friend, I discovered, too late, to have been a traitor—a man who was foremost in the ranks of my bitterest enemies. But for that man, I should still have been enabled to regain a station in society, and I should have yet preserved the esteem of my friends, and, above all, my own self-respect. But how often is it seen that the avarice of one creditor destroys the clemency of all the rest, and forever dissipates the fair prospects of the unfortunate debtor! With the kind assistance of Mr. Thomas Oliver Springfield, I obtained the signature of all my creditors to a petition for superseding my bankruptcy. But just then, when I flattered myself that my ill fortune was about to close—that my blossoms were ripening—there came “a frost—a nipping frost.” My chief creditor refused to sign, unless he was paid a bonus of 300l. upon his debt beyond all the other creditors. This demand was backed by the man who was at the time his and my solicitor. I spurned the offer—I awakened his resentment. I was cast upon the world—my all disposed of—in the deepest distress. My brother afterwards availed himself of my misfortune, and entered into business. His warehouses were destroyed by the accident of a fire, as has been proved by the verdict of a jury on a trial at which the venerable judge now present presided. But that accident, unfortunate as it was, has been taken advantage of in order to insinuate that he was guilty of crime, because his property was destroyed by it, as will be proved by the verdict of an honest and upright jury in an action for conspiracy, which will be tried ere long before the Chief Justice of the King’s Bench. A conspiracy that was, but where? Why, in the acts of the prosecutor himself, Mr. Barber Beaumont, who was guilty of suborning witnesses, and who will be proved to have paid for false testimony. Yes; this professed friend of the aggrieved,—this pretended prosecutor of public abuses,—this self-appointed supporter of the laws, who panders to rebellion, and has had the audacity to raise its standard in the front of the royal palace—this man, who has just head enough to continue crime, but not heart enough to feel its consequences,—this is the real author of the conspiracy, which will shortly undergo legal investigation. To these particulars I have thought it necessary to call your attention, in language which you may think perhaps too warm—in terms not so measured, but that they may incur your reproof. But