The prisoner having pleaded Not Guilty, in a firm and distinct voice, the trial commenced. The evidence which was now adduced differed but slightly in effect from the circumstances which we have detailed. Proof was, however, given in support of the first and sixth counts of the indictment, that at the time of the discovery of the body of the deceased marks were distinctly visible, which showed that she had received a pistol-shot or a gun-shot wound; and it was also proved, by the brother of the deceased girl, that the prisoner, at the time of his quitting the house of old Marten on the day of the murder, carried a loaded gun. A number of letters were likewise put in, which had been written by the prisoner to the father of the deceased in reference to his intended marriage with his daughter.
The prisoner, on being called upon for his defence, read a manuscript paper in a low and tremulous tone of voice. He declared that he deeply deplored the death of the unfortunate female in question; and he urged the jury to dismiss from their minds all that prejudice which must necessarily have been excited against him, by the foul imputations which had been cast upon him by the public press. He admitted that the evidence which had been adduced, was sufficient to create some suspicion against him; but he trusted that the explanation which he should give of the circumstances, would at once explain, to their satisfaction, the real bearings of the case. He then proceeded to say, “No man regrets more sincerely than I do the death of the unfortunate Maria, the circumstances attending which I am now about to state; and much have I to regret, that I for a moment concealed them, but I did so because I was stupified and horror-struck at the time, and knew not how to act. You have heard of the nature of my connexion with the unfortunate Maria; that connexion was contrary to the will of my mother, and to conceal her situation, I took lodgings for her at Sudbury, where she was confined. In the usual time she returned to her father’s house; in a fortnight after which the infant died—not, as has been intimated, by violence, but a natural death. Being anxious to conceal the circumstance from my friends and neighbours, it was agreed between her father, and mother, and myself, that Maria and I should bury the child in the fields, and we took it away for that purpose. After this Maria returned to my house at Polstead; and by means of a private staircase I took her to my own room, where she remained concealed for two days. The pistols which have been spoken of were hanging up in the room loaded. I had before that shown her the use of them, and on returning to her father’s, she, by some means unknown to me, contrived to get the pistols into her possession. It is well known that at that period Maria was much depressed in spirits, and was anxious that I should marry her, although I had reason to suspect that she was at the time in correspondence with a gentleman in London by whom she had a child. My friends objected to the match, and I declined it at the time. But although poor Maria’s conduct was not altogether free from blame. I was much attached to her, and at length agreed to her wishes; and it was arranged that we should go to Ipswich and obtain a licence for that purpose. Whether I did or did not say anything about a warrant having been issued by the parish officers for her apprehension, I cannot now pretend to say; but if I did, it must have been because such a report was abroad at the time. It was agreed that Maria should go in male attire to the Red Barn so often mentioned in the course of the trial. You have heard from the mother of unfortunate Maria, that she and I had had words. As we proceeded to the Barn she was in tears. To that Barn we had often repaired before, and frequently passed the night there. When we reached the Barn, words arose, and Maria flew into a passion. I told her that if we were to be married, and to live together, she must not go on so. Much conversation ensued, and on changing her dress, she at length told me, that if we were married we should never be happy together—that I was too proud to marry her and take her to my mother’s, and that she did not regard me. I was highly irritated, and asked her, if she was to go on this way before marriage, what was I to expect after? She again upbraided me, and being in a passion, I told her I would not marry her, and turned from the Barn, but I had scarcely reached the gate when a report of a pistol reached my ear. I returned to the Barn, and with horror beheld the unfortunate girl extended on the floor, apparently dead: I was for a short time stupified with horror, and knew not what to do. It struck me to run for a surgeon; and well would it have been for me had I done so. But I raised the unfortunate girl, in order, if possible, to afford her some assistance; but I found her altogether lifeless; and, to my horror, I discovered that the dreadful act had been committed by one of my own pistols, and that I was the only person in existence who could tell how the fatal act took place. The sudden alarm which seized me suspended my faculties, and I was for some time before I could perceive the awful situation in which I was placed, and the suspicions which must naturally arise from my having delayed to make the circumstance instantly known. I, at length, found that concealment was the only means by which I could rescue myself from the horrid imputation; and I resolved to bury the body as well as I was able. Having done so, I subsequently accounted for her absence in the manner described by the witnesses, saying sometimes one thing to one person, and at other times other things to another. I may be asked why, if innocent of the crime imputed to me, I felt it necessary to give those answers? To which I answer, that some persons are driven to do acts from fear which others do from guilt, which is precisely the case with me in this instance. It may be asked, too, why I have not called evidence to prove the facts I have stated; but, gentlemen, I put it to you whether things do not sometimes take place which are only known to the parties between whom they happen; and what direct proof can I give when the only person who knew of these facts is no more? I can for the same reason give no direct proof of the unhappy woman’s having got possession of my pistols. I say pistols, because I found the other loaded pistol in the unfortunate Maria’s reticule. As to the stabs and other wounds described by the witnesses, I can only say that no stab or cut was given by Maria or myself; and I firmly believe that the surgeons would never have sworn to them, were it not for the circumstance of a sword having been found in the room in which I was arrested. If any stab did appear upon the body, it must have been done with the instrument used in disinterring it.”
Having concluded his address by a strong appeal to the jury upon the probabilities of the case, a number of witnesses were called, who spoke to the prisoner’s good character. The Lord Chief Baron summed up, and a verdict of “Guilty” was returned. At this point the prisoner was first observed to raise his handkerchief to his eyes; and during the subsequent passing of the sentence of death, he seemed to be dreadfully affected. On his return to the jail, he seemed to recover his spirits; but the only desire which he expressed was, that he should be permitted to see his wife. To this request an immediate assent was given, and at two o’clock on the Saturday afternoon, she was admitted to the prisoner. The meeting between her and her wretched husband was of a most affecting character, and it did not terminate until near an hour had elapsed. During that evening, the prisoner was constantly attended by the reverend chaplain of the jail; but notwithstanding the religious exhortations which he received, he exhibited no inclination to make any confession of his crime. On the following day the prisoner attended chapel in the customary manner, and during the performance of the service he appeared deeply affected. On his return to his cell, he threw himself upon his bed and wept bitterly for a considerable time. In the course of the afternoon, it was hinted to him that his defence could scarcely be believed; but in answer he said that, “Confession to God was all that was necessary, and that confession to man was what he called popedom or popery, and he never would do it.” It was subsequently suggested to him that he must have had great nerve to dig the grave while the body lay in his sight, when his reply was, “Nobody knows that the body lay in the barn and in sight, whilst I dug the hole;” but then, suddenly checking himself, he exclaimed, “O God! nobody will dig my grave.” In the course of the afternoon, he had a second and last interview with his wife, and the scene was truly heart-rending. He expressed the most anxious fears with regard to the manner in which she would be in future treated by the world; and implored her, should she ever marry again, to be cautious how she accepted a proposition reaching her through the equivocal medium of a public advertisement. The parting scene was most dreadful, and the wretched woman was carried away from the cell in a state of stupor. After Mrs. Corder had retired, Mr. Orridge, the worthy governor of the jail, made the strongest efforts to induce the unhappy prisoner to confess, pointing out to him how greatly he would add to his crime, should he quit the world still denying his guilt. Corder then exclaimed, “O, sir, I wish I had made a confidant of you before, I often wished to have done it, but you know, sir, it was of no use to employ a legal adviser and then not follow his advice.” Mr. Orridge said that there was no doubt that was very proper, up to the time at which he was convicted, but that now all earthly considerations must cease. The wretched prisoner then exclaimed, “I am a guilty man,” and immediately afterwards made the following confession:—
“Bury Jail, August 10, 1828—Condemned Cell,
“Sunday Evening, Half-past Eleven.
“I acknowledge being guilty of the death of poor Maria Marten, by shooting her with a pistol. The particulars are as follows:—When we left her father’s house we began quarrelling about the burial of the child, she apprehending that the place wherein it was deposited would be found out. The quarrel continued for about three quarters of an hour upon this and about other subjects. A scuffle ensued, and during the scuffle, and at the time I think that she had hold of me, I took the pistol from the side-pocket of my velveteen jacket and fired. She fell, and died in an instant. I never saw even a struggle. I was overwhelmed with agitation and dismay—the body fell near the front doors on the floor of the barn. A vast quantity of blood issued from the wound, and ran on to the floor and through the crevices. Having determined to bury the body in the barn (about two hours after she was dead), I went and borrowed the spade of Mrs. Stowe; but before I went there, I dragged the body from the barn into the chaff-house, and locked up the barn. I returned again to the barn, and began to dig the hole; but the spade being a bad one, and the earth firm and hard, I was obliged to go home for a pick-axe and a better spade, with which I dug the hole, and then buried the body. I think I dragged the body by the handkerchief that was tied round her neck. It was dark when I finished covering up the body. I went the next day and washed the blood from off the barn-floor. I declare to Almighty God I had no sharp instrument about me, and that no other wound but the one made by the pistol was inflicted by me. I have been guilty of great idleness, and at times led a dissolute life, but I hope through the mercy of God to be forgiven.
“W. Corder.”
“Witness to the signing by the said William Corder,
“John Orridge.”
On the next morning the confession was read over to the prisoner, and he declared that it was quite true; and he further said, in answer to a question put to him by the under-sheriff, that he thought the ball entered the right eye.
He subsequently appeared much easier in his mind, and attended service in the chapel immediately before his being carried out for execution. He still wore the clothes in which he was dressed at the time of his trial. As allusions were made to his unhappy situation in the prayers which were read, he appeared convulsed with agony; and when the service was over, although he appeared calm, his limbs gave up their office, and he was obliged to be carried to his cell.