Pardon Me, Governor... Pretty Please?

By Jack Clements
Detective Dragnet
February 1980 (Volume 24, Number 1)

Driving along the highway that night of August 24th, 1926, Jesse Laster, chief of detectives at Joplin, Missouri, chatted with his wife and their guests, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Sprague.

About nine miles west of Joplin, they entered the State of Kansas and rolled across a bridge spanning Spring River. A short distance beyond the bridge, a broad country lane entered the highway, and Laster decided to turn around. When he completed the turn, he stopped before again entering the highway.

As the car halted, a blinding light was suddenly turned into the eyes of the automobile occupants, and a dark figure stepped from behind a huge pile of mine boulders. The nearby area was dotted with abandoned zinc and lead mines, and this pile of stones belonged to one of these diggings. The intruder was holding a shotgun slightly ahead of the powerful spotlight he was using and the muzzle of the gun was pointing directly at Laster's head.

"Who are you, and what are you doing out here?" a gruff voice demanded. "I'm an officer, so speak up."

The Joplin sleuth laughed. "Take it easy," he chuckled as he spoke. "There's nothing to be worried about. I'm Jesse Laster, chief of detectives in Joplin.'

As the detective spoke, the gunman uttered a string of curses. Then without warning, the shotgun roared while Laster jerked violently forward, then slumped under the steering wheel. The light was extinguished and the shooter vanished.

Mrs. Laster was the first to recover from the terrifying experience. "Quick," she cried, "drive back to Joplin. Jesse is badly hurt." But to the frantic woman’s horror, neither of the Spragues knew how to operate an automobile.

The almost hysterical woman managed to get her mate's limp form from beneath the wheel. She had never driven a car before, but had watched her husband as he shifted the gears in their various machines. Now she managed to get the automobile into gear and she was thankful that the engine had been running when the killer had encountered them. She felt that she could never have gotten the motor to start, had the ignition been turned off. Gritting her teeth, she was able to steer the new auto onto the roadway and turn toward Joplin. It took almost an hour to reach the city, for Mrs. Laster had put the car in low gear as she didn't know how to shift into high gear.

Dr. Mitchell Craig lived only a few doors away and he arrived quickly when Mr. Sprague telephoned. The physician made a hasty examination of the wounded and unconscious officer, than glanced at the anxious wife and friends. Laster was beyond human aid with the back of his head blown away by the shotgun blast.

After listening to the tearful story of Mrs. Laster, the medic called Joplin Police Headquarters. Ten minutes later a carload of officers arrived – Detectives Alec Brown, Edward Hall, Thomas Sweeney and Len Vandeventer along with Police Chief Arch McDonald.

As she talked with these men, Mrs. Laster was still bearing up remarkably well. Keeping a grip on her emotions, she told the investigators what had happened. But both she and her guests were able to furnish only a vague description of the gunman. The blinding light the killer had used had prevented the people from seeing him distinctly. However, Mrs. Sprague volunteered that she had the impression that the murderer had been a middle-aged man of about average height. She explained her description of the criminal. "I didn't actually see him very well, but it seemed to me that he ran like an older man when he left. His voice didn't sound like a youngster's, either."

Upon learning that the crime had occurred in Kansas, Chief McDonald immediately called Sheriff Phil Fisher at Columbus, which is the seat of Cherokee county. The sheriff said he would meet the Joplin officers at the crime scene. The Missouri city and Columbus were about the same distance from the murder spot and the Kansas sheriff arrived there at almost the same time as did the policemen.

Before leaving the Laster home, McDonald had called his office and ordered that all highways leading into Joplin be blocked at once. He had little hope that this move would be likely to snare the murderer, but there was always a chance that the man might have been delayed in some way, if he actually did attempt to leave the area. McDonald also had all off-duty officers notified and called to work. He told the desk sergeant that all suspicious characters should be taken in, and any man who had a reputation for violence should certainly be questioned closely.

Combining the spotlights and head lamps on their cars, the men began searching the side road and the highway. They were not looking for any certain thing, but they had some hope that the criminal might have been around the place for some time before he encountered the Lasters, and could have left behind some indication of his identity or where he lived or worked. They did not believe that the gunman had merely been passing here and had come upon the auto of his victim by chance. They felt, instead, that it was more likely the man had been here for a purpose. They knew that he could not have known that Laster would stop to turn around at this place, so there must have been another reason for the killer’s presence here.

It was Detective Edward Hall who came upon something of interest, a set of truck tire imprints in the somewhat muddy soil. Larger than ordinary automobile tires, it was plain that the truck had been equipped with diamond tread tires, both front and rear. The truck tires had almost wiped out the prints left by Laster's machine, and the sleuths knew that the bigger machine had certainly been driven there after the officer had been slain. It was reasonable to assume that the truck had probably been driven by the gunman, or he had at least been a passenger in the machine.

"There aren't many trucks that use this off-brand highway any more," McDonald said. "So I'd think that some of the people who live around here could have seen this truck and maybe they will even know who drives it. If we're lucky, someone could even be able to tell us why anyone was driving around here at night in a truck. There had to be a reason for them to be here, for very few people ever go joyriding in a thing like that. Most of us know where the scattered houses are located around here, so we'll start talking to these people."

Following the chief’s suggestion, the several officers went in pairs as they began the canvass. There were only a few homes in the somewhat barren mining region and they found all the neighboring citizens at home. But they did not find even one person who said they had heard the shotgun blast that had killed Laster, or who would admit ever having seen any kind of truck stopped in the vicinity.

When the lawmen had again assembled at the murder site, they discussed what the motive might have prompted the cold-blooded murder. They realized that Laster, having been a policeman for some 18 years, was the most likely to have motivated a revenge killing. But they reasoned that he had not been set up or a trap of any kind in his death. There was no possible way for the gunman to have known in advance that Laster would ever visit this spot and especially at night. They agreed that although this has possibly been a revenge shooting, it had not been planned in advance.

There was not a great deal more to be done, so after posting two men as guards, McDonald took his officers back to Joplin, while Sheriff Fisher also returned to Columbus. They would meet again early the next morning.

Not long after dawn, the sheriff and police chief were together again. As they viewed the crime scene in daylight, they were puzzled as to what course to take in their investigation. The Joplin city jail was overflowing with characters who had been picked up for questioning, but these men and youths were slowly being released as they furnished alibis or otherwise satisfied the lawmen that they knew nothing about the murder. This was also true in Columbus, the only difference being that there were not so many potential suspects to be interrogated.

"I think," Fisher suggested "the best thing for us to do is for two men to concentrate all their time on this case. I'll work at it, and you can pick whoever you wish."

"And," McDonald quickly conceded, "I think you're right. I will assign Edward Hall to work with you. I believe he is the best man for the job. He isn't easily discouraged, and I happen to know that he will stick to a case until it is either solved, or he is called off it to work on something which is considered more important."

The Kansas sleuth nodded agreement to this suggestion. He was acquainted with Detective Hall and felt that he could work well with the Joplin office.

At that moment, Hall and Detective Thomas Sweeney arrived and McDonald explained about his decision. Accompanied by Sweeney, the chief departed for Joplin, leaving the two new partners to begin their own investigation.

When he was here before, Hall had noticed a faint path about fifty feet from the murder spot. He pointed this out to Fisher who had also noticed the signs that someone obviously passed this way quite often. The pair began following the marks on the ground and after about two hundred feet, they found that the path seemed to end near several abandoned mine buildings. They could find no trace of it beyond the old shacks and they were puzzled to discover that the path stopped very near the apparently deserted zind mine shaft.

"Someone has certainly been coming to this place on a regular basis," the Kansas lawmen commented. "Probably bootleggers," he went on. "These old diggings are loaded with them and so are the courts and jails. This shaft seems to be dry," he added as he turned the beam of his flashlight into the dark hole, "so suppose we take a look down there. Maybe our killer had been up here when he met with the Lasters and Spragues."

Almost all abandoned mines were flooded with water, but this one was high on a small hill and was dry. It seemed to be approximately 50 feet in depth and heavy wooden cleats were nailed to the timbers that supported the walls.

The lawmen carefully descended into the shaft and saw a large chamber on one side. Turning their lights into this room or "drift" as they are called by miners, the sheriff and city detective were astounded at what they saw. Before them was the most complete liquor still they had ever seen. On one side of the cave-like room was a huge pile of sacked sugar and nearby they saw a number of barrels which contained mash. The mine was at least 100 feet long by 50 feet wide with a 20-foot roof. In one corner a clear spring bubbled across the floor and disappeared into the hole on the other side of the room. Both men knew that this was an ideal location for a still, as fresh water is absolutely required in the making of the spirits. Two powerful gasoline lanterns swung from the roof timbers, while a block and tackle indicated how the moonshiners got the supplies into the place and hoisted the illicit booze to the surface.

Hall's eyes swept over the room. "This place is somewhat damp and I doubt that any fingerprints will be on anything, but we'll get the identification man out here, just in case. If we can't get a line on whoever is running this thing, it may be tough to catch with anyone. Whoever runs this still is certainly aware of the murder having taken place, and I'd say it isn't too likely they will risk coming back here very soon. That will hold true whether they had anything to do with the crime or not."

"So," his companion retorted, "unless we can locate someone who will talk, our only chance to snare the owners of this thing is to simply wait for them to finally venture back. If we can pick up the right character, we’ll find out who runs the still. Whoever he is, he has considerable money invested here, and it will be hard for him to resist the temptation to come back, even if he intends to try and move it to some other spot."

Sheriff Fisher concealed himself near the mine while Hall returned to Joplin to get the police identification officer. Both men hoped that the owner of the still might visit the place and Fisher could nab him.

However, when Hall returned with the ID expert, the Kansas sleuth had to report that no one had appeared during his partner's absence.

The identification man shook his head the moment he saw the illicit still. "Everything is damp down here," he announced, "and there isn't much chance that any prints are here. But I'll take a look." Moments later he began putting his implements back into his carrying case. "No use," he growled. "Just as I thought, there's nothing here at all."

When they were again alone, the two lawmen began a careful examination of every article in the mine. They hoped they would come upon some object which could be traced to whoever had purchased it. But they had no luck. Like most bootleg stills, this one had been constructed from all junk-like material, the origin of which probably dated back for many years and which carried no numbers or other means of finding out from where it had come.

The discouraged investigators were leaving the mine shaft when Hall spoke up suddenly. "We're being stupid," he exclaimed. "They bought all that sugar we saw, and they must have got it from a wholesale house and transported it themselves. It's a cinch they wouldn't let a deliveryman get wise to the still. It's two-to-one that the truck tire prints we saw out here, were made when they hauled the sugar, and no doubt also when they made deliveries of the hooch.

"There's several wholesale houses around here, but we're bound to find the right one sooner or later. I'm not worried about any dealer trying to cover up on selling the sugar. There just isn't enough money involved to pay such an establishment to risk being caught breaking the law if they lied about selling anything that they thought was used in an illegal manner."

At the nearest wholesale grocery, the manager nodded as he listened to Hall's explanation of how they were interested in his sugar sales. "We have very little cash-and-carry business," he said, but he named a smaller concern whose business was mostly of that variety.

When they reached this place, they found that their luck had changed for the better. The owner acknowledged that he remembered two men who had bought sugar in the manner they described.

"They are young fellows in their early twenties," he explained. "They told me they wanted the sugar for a small ice cream plant they had established in Neosho, and they paid cash. I had no reason to suspect that anything was wrong with the deal." He was able to give a fairly good description of the customers, but he did not know their names or where they lived. Nor had he noticed the truck they used to transport the sugar.

Back at headquarters they found that a few more undesirable characters were still being questioned, but nothing new had been learned. All of these men and women were known to have at one time or another been arrested for liquor law violations, but they all swore that they knew nothing about the murder, nor would they offer any suggestions as to the culprit's identity.

None of the lawmen had any confidence that the roundup would result in helping the investigation, but Chief McDonald tried to improve their chances of success by promising each potential suspect that any help would be held in strict confidence and its source never revealed. Despite this guarantee, the men and women insisted that they did not know who owned or operated the still, and they refused to suggest the name of any possible suspect in the murder.

Every member of the Joplin Police Department and the men in Sheriff Fisher's office at Columbus, Kansas, had a let-down feeling a failure. Some even voiced predictions that the killer would never be caught.

The only real exception to this attitude was Detective Hall. Bearing a reputation of never admitting defeat, he was determined to solve this crime unless he should be taken off the case for some unforeseen reason. He was sitting alone as he mulled over the case, when he suddenly had an idea. He beckoned to Sheriff Fisher who was across the room.

"Look," he said in a grim tone, "those guys lied to the wholesaler about why they wanted that sugar," he began, "but why did they pick on that certain small ice cream company and name it as the buyer? There are many legal reasons why they would buy the sugar, so I wonder if it's possible they might have connections with the ice cream business in some way, or maybe just worked at that place or another one? We'd better talk to the manager of the plant. He might have some interesting things to tell us, maybe even the names of the sugar buyers."

"Sounds logical to me," the Kansas sleuth agreed. "It just might work out, and it at least beats twiddling our thumbs and grabbing a lot of scared moonshiners."

An hour later, the partners were talking to the manager of a small ice cream company in Neosho, Missouri, which is twenty miles south of Joplin. Neither man had any police jurisdiction here, but they did have the legal right to ask questions regarding any crime.

Although they both had entertained some hope of success in this move, they were not surprised at what the dealer told them. He said that he had no idea who the customers had been.

"They may be regular customers," he said regretfully, "or they may have even worked here at some time. But I just can't figure out who they could be from the descriptions you have given to me. I'm sorry I can't help you, and you can be very sure that if I should learn anything of value to you, I'll get in touch with you."

As the dejected lawmen started to return to Joplin, it was Sheriff Fisher's turn to come up with a plan of action. "We could still be overlooking something," he observed. "I remember that there wasn't a single empty sugar sack in that mine. Now from the looks of things, that still has been there for quite awhile. Those barrels of mash all had sugar in them, so what did the guys do with the empty bags? They're pretty valuable, and it's possible they sold them to a juckyard. There are also some places that deal only in empty sacks, and one of them could have bought sugar sacks from our bright young men."

When they stopped at a junkyard, they found that none of the regular junk dealers bought empty bags. The merchant told them that there were only two companies in the district where the sole business was dealing in the empty containers. Five minutes later they were talking with the owner of one of these firms.

"I think I know who you mean," the dealer said at once. "They drive an old Dodge truck but I don't know who they are. I did notice that the truck has a Missouri license plate, but the most outstanding thing about it is that although it is pretty trashy looking, it has apparently new diamond tread tires all around."

The lawmen exchanged quick glances at the mention of the tires. They were remembering the many tracks they had seen at the scene of the murder.

The merchant could tell them nothing more, and after he said he would notify authorities if the men should come back to his place, the partners left.

Both men felt somewhat encouraged, for although their progress was somewhat sketchy, they certainly knew a little more about the two suspects than they had previously. "There can't be so many old Dodge trucks around here that we can't come up with the right one," Hall observed hopefully. "It won't be too hard to locate every Dodge outfit in this end of the country."

It was only a matter of minutes after reaching headquarters until they had a list of owners of all Dodge trucks in the area. They decided to wait until the next morning before beginning what they knew could be a long and tiresome canvass of these truck owners.

There were only a dozen such vehicles licensed locally, but when night came and they had exhausted the names on their list, and they had failed to locate the Dodge with the heavy diamond tread tires.

Three weeks passed, and absolutely no progress was made in the investigation. Scores of officers were on watch for the Dodge truck while the old mine was under the eyes of officers night and day. No one came near the still and although every person who was picked up and who had any kind of criminal record was questioned closely, not one seemed to have any information in the murder.

"We're just not ever going to get anywhere unless we figure out some new angle," grumbled Hall as he and Sheriff Fisher again reviewed all that they knew in the case. "So I think we should take that still apart one piece at a time. Maybe, and just maybe, we'll come up with something."

Back at the time they again examined the still and all things they found here. But when they had finished the work, they had uncovered absolutely nothing of value to them.

Back on the surface again, Hall’s eyes wandered over the half-wild countryside. He centered his gaze on a thick growth of brush which had obviously sprung up since the time when the mine had been worked. Although there was actually nothing out of the ordinary about the thicket, for some reason he didn't understand, the detective started walking toward the growth. Without asking any questions, the Kansas sheriff went with him.

When they reached the brush, they found an opening and saw a faintly outlined trail leading toward the nearby forest. They knew it had escaped their notice before because it was invisible when it reached the rocky soil near the mine. Without talking, they followed the path through the heavy woods, each man wondering what would develop from the discovery.

A quarter mile from where they had picked up the trail, they suddenly emerged from the trees and found themselves in a large clearing. At the other side of the clearing was an ancient log house which seemed to be deserted.

Still without saying a word to each other, the two lawmen drew their service revolvers. While Hall cautiously approached the front of the structure, Fisher went to the back. They did not know what to expect, but they did know that if this place should be a hideout for moonshiners, they could be dangerous. This could be true, whether such men had a connection or even any knowledge of the shooting of Detective Laster.

Standing to one side of the closed front door, Detective Hall rapped sharply on the portal with his pistol barrel while calling out to whoever might be inside. He repeated this summons several times without receiving any response, and he then turned the knob of the door which was not locked. Still there was no sound from within, but the long-time peace officer now dropped to the ground before venturing to enter the place. His reason for hugging the earth so closely was because he knew from experience that any gunman who should be inside the building, would be almost certain to fire at about the height of a man's belt buckle and would thus miss his target.

As the city officer inched his way through the doorway, Fisher joined him. But the two soon found that all their caution had been in vain. There was no one in the one-room building. The place contained no furniture, but they saw a large canvas near a rear wall. This cloth was apparently covering something and the sheriff pulled it aside.

The astounded investigators were almost shocked at what was revealed. The canvas had been used to cover a huge pile of canned goods. Included were canned fruit, meat and vegetables along with other things. Judging from the appearance of the dust which had collected on the canvas, the food had been there for some time.

"This stuff must belong to the moonshiners," muttered Fisher, but neither of them touched any of the goods.

"Let's hope that the ID man can come up with some prints here," the county sleuth added, "But I wouldn't bet he will. I'd say this collection has been here for several months. In that case, it isn't too probable that prints will still be around. Unless whoever handled the cans had grease or paint on their hands."

"It's almost a sure thing that this food belonged to the moonshiners, all right," Hall commented, "and they haven't come back for it for the same reason they haven't returned to the still.

With the sheriff staying here to act as a guard, the detective hurried back to Joplin where he got the identification officer. When he expert examined their find, he gave them a bitter disappointment. "These cans are all blurred," he said glumly. "I would say whoever handled them was wearing gloves."

When they heard this announcement, the two investigators looked hard at each other. "The most important case either of us has ever had, and we can't get anywhere on it," muttered Hall.

As they walked back to their parked car, the Joplin officer had another idea. "I've been thinking about how all that food was stored in the cabin," he began, "and it brought something back to me. Do you remember that about two weeks before Laster was killed, burglars carted off over $1,500 in goods from a store in Crane, Missouri? And do you recall that the burglars were using a truck that had diamond tread tires? The sheriff found the tire tracks where the thieves backed the truck having been around here. There just has to be a connection there, and it's almost certain that the burglars and our moonshiners are the same guys. There's also a good chance that they are also the ones who killed Jesse Laster, or they know who did."

"I think," his companion retorted, "that we would be a couple of chumps if we don't follow up on that idea. The sheriff of Stone County caught those burglars a few days ago, but he did not recover all the stolen goods. The two guys both had records and they pleaded guilty to the store robbery. They got 15 years apiece and they're both in the Missouri penitentiary now. So if that Crane merchant can identify the things in the cabin, we'll certainly have the moonshiners and either the killer, or two guys who surely know who he is."

As they began acting on their plan, the lawmen returned to the log shack where they selected a number of samples of the various foods there. Then they set out on the seventy-five mile drive to Crane, Missouri. They watched anxiously as the manager of the big general store began his examination of the cans and boxes of food. They both grinned broadly when the man inspected the things and immediately began nodding. "They're mine, all right." He said at once. "Those are my price marks and code numbers on everything."

The two officers lost no time in heading for the state prison in Jefferson City, about 200 miles from Crane. Warden Leslie Rudolph brought Greco Webb and Linvel Boswell to his office at once. These were the convicts from Joplin who were serving the 15-year sentences for robbing the Crane grocery.

The prisoners were separated and Webb was first to be questioned. To the utter astonishment of the lawmen and the warden, the convict grinned widely, then he actually laughed aloud. "I been wondering when you guys would show up," he chuckled. "What took you so long? I was about to notify you, if you hadn't finally figured it out. Sure we killed Laster. That is, Boswell did. I was standing right behind him at the time. He threw the gun into Spring River and we went on our way. Is there anything else you fellows would like to know?"

Following this startling speech, the prisoner readily wrote out his confession and signed it with the three officials as witnesses.

The men were in for another surprise when they talked with the other prisoner. Like his partner, Boswell was in a friendly mood. He instantly acknowledged that he had been present when the chief of detectives had been slain, but he said it was Webb who had pulled the trigger. He also signed a statement in their presence. Bothe convicts had admitted to operating the still in the mine which they had owned for several months.

Both Boswell and Webb agreed to return to Joplin with Fisher and Hall and the ofiicers started the trip early the following day.

At headquarters in Joplin, Mrs. Laster viewed the two suspects who were placed in a line with several other prisoners. But to the dismay of the detectives, the woman burst into tears as the events of that terrible night were brought back to her, and she said she could not identify any of the men in the lineup.

Webb and Boswell were charged with first-degree murder, but there was one hitch in the proceedings. The crime had been committed in Kansas, and the prisoners were already serving felony terms in Missouri. Therefore, although they might be willing to go to Kansas to face the murder charges, they could not be forced to do so until they had satisfied their obligation to Missouri.

Under the law the authorities explained the situation to the convicts who both laughed. "Yes, we know all about that," Webb said. "Now if you guys want to wait until we finish our terms, your might do all right in court. On the other hand, it will be about eight years before you can try us if you choose to wait. Now I ask you, wouldn't it be nicer for you if our Governor Sam A. Baker, gave us each a pardon in Missouri, then we could go to Kansas and face the music there?"

The Missouri officers realized that the convict was correct in what he had said. The men could not be merely paroled, then forced to stand trial in Kansas. Under the law, they would either have to be pardoned or first serve their 15-year sentences before they could be taken to Kansas. The authorities also knew that although a parole can be revoked and a prisoner returned to prison, this isn't true of an outright pardon. A pardon is final and no further action is possible against an individual who receives one.

The officers also knew that under the Missouri "Good Time" law, in effect the, a felon was required to serve only 7 months for each year of his term. Thus, as Webb had pointed out, he and Boswell would not be free for approximately eight years yet. During such a lapse in time, it would be very difficult to get a conviction, even with the signed confessions of the pair.

"Even though it does look silly for these guys to so freely admit murder instead of just serving their time with a good chance of beating the rap after eight years, they will have to be pardoned before they can be taken back to Kansas on the murder," Joplin Prosecuting Attorney Roy Coyne told the policemen. "And," he added with a grimace, "I wouldn't want to be the prosecutor who tried to convict them after eight years. A lot of juries would regard them as being the victims, instead of Laster."

Therefore, in view of the unusual circumstances, Governor Baker promptly issued a full pardon to both Webb and Boswell. Then the criminal partners sprung still another surprise on authorities. This time it was the Kansas officials who received the jolt. Both Webb and Boswell suddenly offered to plead guilty to first-degree murder, provided they would not be hanged. This was agreeable to all the concerned authorities and Judge John Hamilton sentenced each man to life in the Kansas penitentiary. This was on May 14, 1927.

Apparently that was the end of the case. But only a month went by when a bombshell exploded under the Kansas officials. A Colorado attorney came to see the Governor of Kansas one day. He carried more that a dozen statements from Colorado citizens, all of whom swore that Linvil Boswell had positively been in Denver for several days before Laster had been murdered, and was still there on the day of his death and for more than a week later.

Kansas Governor Ben S. Paulen had Colorado officers check out the signers of these statements. They soon found that Boswell had signed receipts for money he received when he sold a washing machine or other household appliances in Denver at the time in question. There could be no doubt that the man was completely innocent of being involved in any way with the murder of the detective. Therefore, Governor Paulen had no choice. He was forced to issue a pardon to Linvel Boswell and the man was set free at once.

When he was leaving and was asked what had prompted him to pull the legal trick, the man just smiled and said, "Fifteen years is a long time when compared to how long I knew I'd be here."

When Boswell left the prison, he disappeared completely and has never been seen again by any of his former friends or acquaintances.

A few days after his pal's departure, Greco Webb also made an effort to prove that he had been in Colorado at the time of the crime. But ill luck was with him. He had depended on the statements of two prominent ranchers and their families for his alibi. But before any statements could be obtained from these people, they were all killed when they were riding in a car which was struck by a passenger train.

Thus, although it is entirely possible or even true that Greco Webb was innocent of the murder, he failed to gain his freedom and died in prison in 1956 after serving 30 years for a crime he might not have committed.

O, What A Tangled Web He Wove

By Curt Norris
Detective Dragnet
February 1980 (Volume 24, Number 1)

The 1923 winter winds howled a desolate song in the New Hampshire backwoods, a tune that sighed through the pines, whistled past craggy ledges, and moaned like a dirge around a simple, isolated wooden house.

Inside the house, an obscure spider advanced upon a fly newly ensnared in its web. Down in Boston, private investigator James R. Wood was continuing to build a national reputation based on his uncanny deductive skills. Soon the spider, the fly and the private detective would play leading roles in solving one of New Hampshire’s most puzzling crimes.

The house belonged to Samuel Houston, who had gotten kind of lonely down home in the rural stretches of Berwick, Maine. So the tall, muscular cattle dealer with the snow-white hair framing a kindly face decided to spend his remaining years closer to civilization.

"I'd like to have more company when I get old," he'd explain later to folks in North Barrington, a picturesque community in the foothills of eastern New Hampshire.

"Civilization" to Sam Houston in 1917 meant buying a 100-acre farm on a back country road where he lived alone. He was well past 70 at this time, but few of his neighbors considered the striking-looking Mainer an old man. He drove down to Rochester several times each week to buy food and kerosene for his oil lamps, and other days worked as hard on his farm as would a man half his age.

As the years passed, some of the neighbors, aware that they lived too far away to offer immediate help, suggested that Houston should have someone living with him to keep him company. Sam always replied that he had company once a year, and that this was sufficient dissipation for a man of his years. This company, two nephews from down Boston way, always spent several weeks with him each fall hunting season.

But as the years passed, Sam did get tired. He performed fewer farm chores and his trips to Rochester became less frequent. He admitted to his nephews in the fall of 1923 that, at the age of 78, he tired easily. He planned to either close his farm, or, using his savings, hire someone to come out and live in with him. His friends in town were happy when this news spread through the rural grapevine.

In November, Sam Houston hired Summer Clow for $25 a month and keep to serve as a companion and helper around the farm. Clow was the good-natured son of a prominent Rochester businessman and soon proved to be a real help. After the day’s chores and a comfortable supper, Houston looked forward to the evening spent in the large living room with its piano and cheery fireplace. The forgotten glow of friendly companionship returned to warm Houston’s waning years.

Then the glow flickered. Weeks passed and early on the morning of December 8, neighbor Allen Long was awakened by pounding on his door. He slipped reluctantly from his warm bed and groped towards his window.

"What's the matter?" he called down.

A dim figure looked up and identified itself as Summer Clow. "Get the sheriff as fast as you can," Clow ordered. "Sam Houston has been shot!"

Long rushed downstairs and let the shivering Clow inside. "What happened?" he asked.

"Don't know," Crow responded. "I found Mr. Houston by the front door when I came down this morning to start the chores."

"Sit by the fire and thaw out," Long told the handyman. "I'll call the sheriff." Clow refused, saying he couldn't sit still while the old man was lying as he was. Houston might still be alive and in need of help. Clow buttoned his coat and left in a run for the Houston farm while Long spread the alarm.

Long reached Stratford County Sheriff Stephen W. Scruton in Dover. Sheriff Scruton contacted his deputy, Frank Callaghan, in Rochester and then placed a call to his fellow townsman, County Solicitor F. Clyde Keefe.

The three men reached the lonely Houston farm at daybreak. They noticed a human form sprawled across the front door threshold as they drew to a stop.

As the authorities left the car and approached the still body lying in a huge pool of blood, they noticed the broken glass fragments of a kerosene lamp lying beside the man. The glass panels of the open door behind the body were also shattered.

Scruton and Keefe bent over the glassy-eyed and cold form of Houston as Callaghan stood by in silence. The sheriff noted that Houston had been killed by a shotgun, a weapon that had been fired from a considerable distance away. The dead man's heart and lungs had been riddled by the blast. The three took care not to disturb the body, pending the arrival of the medical referee (as medical examiners were called in those days), and stepped into the hall.

They glanced inside the large living room and then proceeded down the narrow, old-fashioned passage. Callaghan pushed open a closed door and steeped into the kitchen. He immediately noticed a form huddled by the kitchen stove.

"Hello, Summer," he said.

Clow turned and greeted his old boyhood friend. "I'm sure glad you're here," he said.

The deputy took a seat beside Clow and asked what had happened. Clow recounted how the two had eaten supper together the night before and then spent the evening in the living room, as was their custom. Houston went into the kitchen around 9 pm. He returned with a kerosene lamp to tell Clow that he was going to bed.

"I'm going to finish this story I'm reading," Crow said he told the old man. Houston went upstairs while Clow continued to read for another half hour. Then the handyman fixed the fires, checked to see that the house was secure, and went upstairs himself. "was tired," Clow explained, "and I went to sleep at once."

Sometime later he was awakened by automobile headlights reflecting off the walls of his room. He heard several voices, thought little of them, and went back to sleep. Maybe it was even a dream, he admitted.

"What happened next?" the Sheriff wanted to know.

"I woke up at my regular time, maybe a little before 6 am. I lit my lamp and got dressed, noticing all the while that the house seemed much colder than usual. When I stared downstairs, I saw the front door was open although I remembered distinctly locking it the night before. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw Mr. Houston lying where he is now."

Callaghan asked Clow if he had any idea what time the automobile stopped outside.

"Oh, maybe between three and four o'clock. I wasn’t too concerned about it because I thought some people had stopped to make repairs to their machine (the old records usually refer to automobiles as 'machine')."

"You heard no shot?"

"No, nothing at all."

The impromptu meeting broke up and the party went outside. It was now broad daylight. The sheriff looked around for empty shotgun shells, extending his search to the dirt road where Clow reported the machine had stopped. The sheriff looked around for tire tracks, but the ground had been too frozen the night before. The investigation proved fruitless, and the group returned to the house.

As far as Clow knew, Sam Houston didn't have an enemy in the world. Everyone seemed fond of the old man and in their quiet evening conversations, the old man had never mentioned any enemies to Clow. The handyman said that the few visitors to the house were neighbors who were above suspicion.

Well, reflected the sheriff, there were rumors that Sam Houston was rich. "What do you know about that?" he asked Clow. "In the seven years he's been in New Hampshire, there have been all kinds of stories about the large amount of cash he had hidden in this house to carry on cattle deals."

"Those were rumors, not fact," Crow replied. "He had only about $400. I tried to make him bank it, but he said it was safe enough here." Keefe asked if Clow knew where the money was hidden.

"Sure", came the quick answer. "He kept it in a tin box behind the top row of books in the living room bookcase." A search revealed the tin box was missing.

As Keefe and Callaghan began to look around, the county solicitor noticed a long, narrow door next to the pantry. He gave it a yank and peered inside. "Nothing in this closet but a couple of guns in the corner," he observed. Clow raised his head - he had been complaining of a headache throughout the preliminary investigation. A neighbor woman appeared and prepared medicine for the handyman. Saying he now felt better, Clow explained about the weapons.

"Those shotguns belong to Mr. Houston's nephew. They come down here every fall to hunt."

Scruton came over to the odd-shaped door. He shone a flashlight into the closet and focused it upon the two dust covered weapons. A spider had spun a triangular web across the muzzles of a double-barreled shotgun. More spider webs encircled the breech of the other single-barreled gun.

"As far as I know, those guns haven't been touched since last fall," Chow observed. "The old man didn't like guns and told me to leave that closet alone."

"Where did Houston get that lantern he used last night?" the sheriff asked.

Clow pointed to a shelf above the sink. There was an empty space between two lamps with highly polished chimneys. The old man, Clow said, had gone out into the kitchen and brought the lamp into the living room where he lit the wick from a "spill" (a slip of wood or paper used for lighting lamps). Then he had gone upstairs.

At this point, the three law officials conferred and agreed to postpone further investigation until the attorney general arrived on the scene. At that time, in New Hampshire, the attorney general was responsible for all murder investigations.

Keefe left the others to call the attorney general's office in Concord and learned that Attorney General Irving A. Hinkley was not available. He had gone deep into the logging woods investigating another murder with Deputy Sheriff Walter French of Lime, and Detective James R. Wood of the Wood Detective Agency n Boston.

Hinkley wasn't able to appear on the scene of the Houston murder until early Sunday morning. He stepped from his car and passed through a circle of heavily armed deputies to greet the waiting county solicitor. Detective Wood accompanied him.

"We moved the body yesterday for autopsy in Rochester upon orders from the medical referee," Keefe told Hinkley. "Otherwise, everything has been left as we found it when we were called."

Hinkley was 33 years old at that time and was believed to be the youngest man in the United States to hold such an important office. He nodded soberly as he asked if the medical referee had made any report yet.

"Only preliminary reports," the county solicitor replied. "Houston was killed with a 12-gauge shotgun." As the three walked towards the house, he acquainted the two new arrivals with further facts of the case.

Wood and Hinkley quickly examined the premises, then Wood questioned Clow in some detail about the car which had stopped outside the house before daybreak on the morning of the murder. Finally, Wood asked to see the two guns in the kitchen closet.

Wood studied the two weapons for some time with interest and spent more time examining the dust-covered closet floor. Hinkley watched the Boston detective in silence, puzzled but respectful of Wood's proven abilities in solving many of New England's most puzzling crimes.

Wood finally looked up at Hinkley and suggested that the two look at the front hall. The two men went to the spot where Houston's body had been found lying half across the threshold. The two carefully studied the scattered glass fragments of the broken kerosene lamp and the wick fixture, which was lying a short distance beyond.

Wood looked puzzled as he turned to his companion. "I'm still wondering," he said, "how it was possible for the old man to fall across the threshold if the door was only partly open. Especially if the death charge from the shotgun came through these glass panels. It looks here as though he must have been behind the glass door panels when the charge was fired."

"Maybe he was opening the door when the murderer fired," the attorney general offered. "If that was true, he instinctively pulled the door open and fell outside."

"Well," Wood countered, "that doesn't explain the broken lamp." The two then went inside where Wood singled out Keefe and Scruton. "I think it would be a good idea if we had Clow re-enact, step by step, the movements of the old man beginning from the time he made ready for bed."

The two agreed and, despite his continuing headache, Clow was more than willing. The handyman walked over to the kitchen shelf, removed an oil lamp from the shelf, and brought it into the living room where he placed it on the table near the parlor stove. He reached for a paper spill from a nearby pile, lit it, and started from the room.

"Stop right there for a moment," Wood commanded. Clow stopped, lamp in hand.

"You're sure he came in as you showed us, lighted the lamp as you did, and then went upstairs?"

"I am positive", Clow answered. "He stood right where I am standing right now."

"Then explain this," Wood questioned. "How could he have lighted it and taken it up to bed when the wick we found from the broken lamp is bone dry and hasn't seen oil for some time? Furthermore, why isn't there any trace of spilled oil upon the floor?"

"There are several lamps in the old man's room. Maybe he picked up the wrong one."

Wood's voice carried authority as he answered. "There was no other lamp. You killed Sam Houston and then broke the lamp where you did, forgetting that its fragments would have dropped on the floor behind the door instead of where you planted them."

"But," Clow protested, "I loved the old man. Why would I, of all people, kill him?"

"For that $400," Wood replied.

"I didn't do it. I don't even have a gun."

"That was the detail which helped trip you up. You used that 12-gauge shotgun that belonged to one of the nephews. After the killing, you placed a spider's web containing a dead fly across the muzzle to throw us off. But you outfoxed yourself.

"No spider leaves a victim in his web unless the spider himself is destroyed. After devouring his prey, a spider discards his victim from the web. I checked the floor carefully by the guns and there was nothing there."

Deputy Sheriff Callaghan entered the room at this dramatic point, and the accused man appealed to his childhood friend.

"You believe me, don't you Frank?" he asked. "You don't think I killed Sam Houston, do you?"

"I'm afraid I do," the deputy returned gravely. "If I hadn't been your friend, I would have seen it hours ago."

"I never killed him," Clow repeated again. But several hours later, after a hot meal in a Rochester restaurant, he signed a full confession to the crime, asserting that he murdered the old man for the $400 which, incidentally, authorities never recovered despite several searches in the nearby woods with Clow. The money remains missing to this day.

Early in January, 1924, Clow appeared before Chief Justice William H. Sawyer in Superior Court at Dover. He was sentenced to life imprisonment.

As the years passed, the crime preyed so much upon Clow's mind that he became hopelessly insane complaining of hearing voices and seeing images. In April, 1928, he was transferred from State Prison to the State Hospital, where he remained until death released him from his torments.

Mary Ann Cotton

Mary Ann Cotton (October 1832 – 24 March 1873) was an English serial killer believed to have murdered up to 20 people, mainly by arsenic poisoning.

Gastric Fever

Young Charles Cotton was dead. The doctor couldn't deny that. His stepmother, Mary Ann Cotton, claimed the seven-year-old boy had died from gastric fever, but the neighbors had noticed that a few too many in the Cotton household had died by similar stomach ailments in recent months, and gossip and suspicion ran rampant through the West Auckland neighborhood in County Durham, England. Slowly, investigators and gossips began looking into the background of 40-year-old Mary Ann.

The deeper they dug, the more Mary Ann's life looked like something out of a gothic horror novel: a childhood of near-abuse and near-poverty, an early marriage to flee an unkind stepfather, and a long string of family members who had succumbed to the mysterious "gastric fever" or other curious circumstances while Mary Ann was ominously close by.

In his book Mary Ann Cotton: Her Story and Trial, researcher Arthur Appleton notes that Mary Ann Robson, born in the small English village of Low Moorsley in October of 1832, did not have a happy childhood -- but neither did most children born in lower-class England in the early 19th century.

Mary Ann's father was ardently religious, a fierce disciplinarian of Mary Ann and her younger brother Robert, and active in the local Methodist church’s choir and activities. No doubt his daughter feared him and his punishments. When Mary Ann was eight, her parents moved the family to the town of Murton, and her father continued working in the mines until one day about a year after their move when he fell down a mine shaft to an early death.

As Dickens would chronicle repeatedly in his classic writings, life for a lower-class family (especially one headed by a newly widowed woman) was extremely harsh in 19th century England. The specter of being sent to a workhouse, or being separated from her mother and brother, cast dark shadows over Mary Ann’s girlhood and was the cause of many nightmares.

Mary Ann never went into the workhouse, however, because her mother remarried. Her new stepfather did not like Mary Ann, and the feeling was mutual. Mary Ann began looking for an escape from her childhood home, although she owed one thing to her stepfather: his salary had kept her and her family from becoming homeless and destitute. Mary Ann learned at an early age that to avoid the miserable fate of her nightmares, she had to keep a steady flow of money coming her way – no matter what the method.

Mrs. Mowbray

Perhaps partly to escape the daily life with her stepfather, Mary Ann left home at the age of 16 to work as a servant in a prosperous household in South Hetton. The quality of Mary Ann's work caused no complaint, although she began what would become a life riddled with sexual scandals. Soon after Mary Ann began working in the household, the South Hetton gossips were busy spreading tales about illicit meetings between Mary Ann and a local churchman.

After three years of service in South Hetton, Mary Ann left to train as a dressmaker and to marry a miner named William Mowbray, by whom she had become pregnant. After their wedding in July of 1852, the newlyweds moved around England as William got work at various mining sites and on railroad construction projects throughout England.

In the first four years of their marriage, William and Mary Ann had five children, although four of them died in infancy or soon after. Even though child mortality rates were high at the time, this was a bit extreme. However, Mary Ann and William were probably viewed as particularly unlucky parents suffering from grievous personal losses.

Mary Ann and William did not have a happy marriage. They argued frequently about money, as Mary Ann was still obsessed about never becoming poor. The quarrels grew so heated that William, in an apparent attempt to get some peace, landed a job on the steamer Newburn out of Sunderland, and was often away from home. Mary Ann and the surviving children followed him and took up residence in Sunderland, and the number of her children lost to indefinable illnesses continued at an alarming rate.

In January of 1865, William returned to the house to nurse an injured foot, and Mary Ann helped him with his recovery. Later that month, despite a doctor's care, William died from a sudden intestinal disorder, which he had not shown evidence of before benefiting from Mary Ann's care. Soon after William's death, the doctor went to the Mowbray house to console the grieving widow but was surprised to find Mary Ann dancing about the room in a new dress she had bought with the money from William's life insurance.

Mrs. Ward

Soon after William Mowbray's death, Mary Ann moved her remaining children to Seaham Harbour, where she struck up a relationship with Joseph Nattrass, a local man who was engaged to another woman. Apparently unable to break up the engagement, Mary Ann left Seaham Harbour after Nattrass's wedding (and after burying her 3 ½ year old daughter, leaving her with one living child out of the nine she had given birth to). Nattrass would reappear in Mary Ann's life several years later.

Mary Ann decided to return to Sunderland and found employment at The Sunderland Infirmary, House of Recovery for the Cure of Contagious Fever, Dispensary and Humane Society. Her remaining child, Isabella, was sent to live with her maternal grandmother, and would remain in her grandmother's care for more than two years.

At the Sunderland Infirmary, Mary Ann kept the wards clean with a mixture of soap and arsenic, and the Infirmary staff admired her diligence and friendliness with the patients. She chatted with many of them, but one in particular, engineer George Ward, took a fancy to Mary Ann. Soon after he was discharged from the Infirmary, he and Mary Ann were married at a church in Monkwearmouth in August of 1865. Although now settled into a new marriage and a steady household, Mary Ann did not fetch Isabella from her mother's house.

Despite having been released from the Infirmary, George Ward developed health problems soon after marrying Mary Ann – and despite various treatments by his doctors, he died in October of 1866 after a long bout of paralysis in his limbs and chronic stomach problems. The doctor attending George was accused of incorrectly treating his patient, a point of view that Mary Ann actively encouraged, probably hoping to redirect any doubts away from herself.

Much later, at Mary Ann's trial, people would wonder why nobody became suspicious of this woman who left a trail of husbands and children dead from startlingly similar illnesses over a very short time. But as Mary Ann had different doctors attend to her dying family and she relocated frequently, suspicions never built in a single community.

According to her pattern, after George Ward's death in Sunderland, Mary Ann needed to move on.

Mrs. Robinson

Pallion shipwright James Robinson needed a housekeeper to care for his house and children after the death of his wife, Hannah. In November of 1866, Mary Ann applied for the position and was hired. Two days before Christmas, the baby of the family was interred after having developed, perhaps not surprisingly, gastric fever. Overcome with the grief of the recent deaths of his wife and then of his infant son, James turned to Mary Ann for solace and support. She provided comfort and apparently then some, as she was soon pregnant with Robinson's child.

A new marriage seemed in the forecast, but Mary Ann was diverted in March of 1867 by a sudden illness of her mother. Mary Ann returned to her mother's home to help nurse the elderly lady back to health. As always, one of Mary Ann's first tasks was to clean the house from top to bottom with soap and (her favorite cleaning additive) arsenic, of which she usually had an ample supply.

By the time Mary Ann arrived, however, her mother was doing much better, but Mary Ann decided to stay and look after her anyway – and to visit her own daughter Isabella, who was still living with her grandmother. Soon after being in Mary Ann's care, her mother began complaining of stomach pains and died only nine days after Mary Ann's arrival.

Returning to the Robinson household with her mother, young Isabella (who had enjoyed a life of good health while living away from Mary Ann) soon developed an incapacitating stomach ailment, as did two of Robinson's children, and all three were buried within two weeks of each other at the end of April.

James Robinson must have grieved further over the loss of two more of his children, but apparently did not suspect any wrongdoing on Mary Ann's part. He put his mourning aside in time for his wedding to Mary Ann in early August (at which Mary Ann stated her surname as "Mowbray" -- apparently her 14-month marriage to George Ward had slipped her mind). The couple's first child, Mary Isabella, was born in late November but had succumbed to illness by the first of March of 1868.

James now began to become suspicious of his new wife, not only by the frequency of deaths in the household since Mary Ann's arrival, but also by her constant requests for money and her pressing desire for him to insure his life.

Always punctual in his household finances, James was surprised when he received letters from his building society and his brother-in-law detailing debts Mary Ann had run up without his knowledge. He questioned his remaining children and found that they had been coerced by their new stepmother to pawn valuables from the house and give her the money. Irate, he threw Mary Ann out of the house, and she left – taking their young daughter with her.

In late 1869, after wandering the streets in the kind of life that Mary Ann had anxiously feared, Mary Ann and her daughter visited an acquaintance. During the course of the visit, Mary Ann asked her friend to watch the girl while she went out to mail a letter. Mary Ann never came back and the daughter was returned to James on the first day of 1870.

Mrs. Cotton

After weeks of desperate living, the year 1870 began well for Mary Ann. Her friend Margaret Cotton introduced her to her brother Frederick. Like James Robinson, Frederick was a recent widower and had lost two of his four children to early deaths. His sons Frederick Jr. and Charles were all that was left of his family. His sister acted as mother substitute for the family, although in late March she died from an undetermined stomach ailment – which left the opportunity wide open for Mary Ann to console the grieving Frederick and, in an echo of her relationship with James Robinson, she was soon pregnant with Frederick's child.

The couple were married in September of 1870, Mary Ann again signing the register as "Mary Ann Mowbray," ignoring the fact that her surname was legally Robinson and that she was not divorced from James, who was very much alive. Mary Ann added bigamy to her growing list of crimes.

Mary Ann quickly set up housekeeping in Cotton's house and just as quickly insured the lives of Frederick Cotton and his two sons.

After giving birth to a son, Robert, in early 1871, Mary Ann learned that her former paramour Joseph Nattrass was not married and was living in nearby West Aukland. Under some pretense Mary Ann moved the family there, and she quickly rekindled the relationship with Nattrass and became less interested in Frederick Cotton.

In December of 1871, Frederick died of gastric fever and Joseph Nattrass soon became a lodger in the three-time widow Mary Ann's house. To keep her fears at bay and to keep money coming in, Mary Ann worked as a nurse to John Quick-Manning, an excise officer recovering from smallpox. Mary Ann apparently saw Quick-Manning as a better match than Nattrass, and soon became pregnant by him.

A marriage to Quick-Manning was hindered by the presence of the remaining Cotton household, so Mary Ann apparently went to work quickly and Frederick Jr. died in March of 1872 and the infant Robert soon after. Upon the death of her infant, Mary Ann stated that she did not want to bury the baby immediately, because Joseph Nattrass had also become ill with gastric fever, and she would wait and handle both burials at once. Nattrass obligingly passed away soon after Robert, but not before revising his will to leave everything to Mary Ann.

Only one of her husbands, James Robinson, had escaped a relationship with Mary Ann with his life. Other husbands, children, and most stepchildren had succumbed to gastric fever or stomach ailments - except for young Charles Cotton and Robinson's children. The Robinson children were safely away from Mary Ann's motherly care, but the insurance policy Mary Ann had taken out on Charles's life still waited to be collected.

The Trial of the Green Wallpapers

In late spring of 1872, Mary Ann sent Charles to a local chemist to purchase a small quantity of arsenic. The chemist refused to sell the poison to anyone under the age of 21, as was the law. Undeterred, Mary Ann asked a neighbor to purchase the substance and in July Charles died of gastric fever.

But Mary Ann had either been in the West Aukland area too long - or the neighbors were more readily skeptical - because suspicions were immediately aroused in neighbors and physicians.

The first person Mary Ann told about Charles's death was Thomas Riley, a minor government official that she had consulted previously about the possibility of sending Charles into a workhouse. Riley had said that it would only be possible if she went with him, which she declined. She told Riley that the boy was "in the way" of a marriage with Quick-Manning, and predicted that, "I won't be troubled long. He'll go like all the rest of the Cotton family." Riley said the boy appeared completely healthy, and so he was surprised when Mary Ann stopped him only five days later to say that young Charles had died.

Riley went to the village police office and to a doctor and outlined his growing suspicions. The doctor was similarly surprised to hear of the news, as he and his assistant had tended to Charles five times during the previous week and had detected nothing dire, let alone life threatening, in the young boy. Riley convinced the doctor to delay writing a death certificate until he could look into the situation further.

Mary Ann, instead of going to fetch the doctor after the boy's death, hurried to the insurance office to collect on Charles's policy. She learned that they would not issue the money until they had a death certificate, so she returned home to get the document from the doctor. Instead of receiving the certificate, Mary Ann received the startling news that she would not be receiving a signed death certificate until after a formal inquest was held.

A brief inquest was held and initial evidence did not indicate death by unnatural causes. Angry at Riley for initiating the investigation, Mary Ann told him that he could be responsible for the costs of Charles’s burial.

The young boy's internment would most likely not have been the end of the story, and Mary Ann would have gone on with her plan to marry Quick-Manning and probably continue obtaining insurance monies from other gastric fever victims – but the local newspapers latched onto the story. They reported on the inquest but also alluded to the neighborhood gossip that Mary Ann was an active poisoner. These reports fanned the fires of rumors and hearsay and the feeling toward Mary Ann within West Aukland became bitter and suspicious. Quick-Manning was appalled by this type of gossip about his intended, and was apparently distressed enough to sever all connections with Mary Ann.

Mary Ann began preparations to leave the area, although her friends warned her that it would look suspicious if she did. Unknown to her, however, suspicions were already building and were about to close in around her. A doctor from the inquiry had kept samples of Charles's stomach so that he could test them later in his lab. He did so, and the samples tested positive for arsenic. The doctor went to the authorities, who arrested Mary Ann and ordered Charles's body exhumed and fully tested. The body of Joseph Nattrass was also dug up (after six exhumations of other corpses - the elderly sexton of the church couldn't remember exactly where Nattrass was buried) and tested positive for the presence of arsenic. There was debate and talk of further exhumations, but it was decided to proceed with the single murder charge of young Charles Cotton – although the trial was delayed until after the delivery of the daughter fathered by John Quick-Manning.

Her trial began in March of 1873. The prosecution brought forth numerous witnesses who testified about Mary Ann's purchases of arsenic, the long list of gastric fever victims in her past, and about her statements regarding Charles being an obstacle to her marrying Quick-Manning.

The defense claimed that Charles may have obtained the arsenic that killed him from inhaling loose airborne particles of arsenic that was used as a dye in the green wallpaper of the Cotton home. The judge dismissed this theory and the jury retired for only 90 minutes before finding Mary Ann guilty of the murder of Charles Cotton.

Mary Ann continued to proclaim her innocence and wrote numerous letters to her friends and supporters. A letter to her estranged husband, James Robinson, asked him to bring her child and two stepchildren to visit her in prison. She went on to beg Robinson "if you have one spark of kindness in you – get my life spared…you know yourself there has been…most dreadful lies told about me. I must tell you: you are the cause of all my trouble. If you had not (abandoned me). I was left to wander the streets with my baby in my arms…no place to lay my head."

Robinson ignored her letter, so she wrote him again and asked him to visit her. Robinson sent his brother-in-law to the prison in his stead. Mary Ann was upset that Robinson did not come himself, but asked the man about the children and requested that a petition be circulated in her support. Petitions were eventually created and signed by Mary Ann's former employers, ministers, and other supporters. As her execution date neared, she was cheered by a letter from the couple who had adopted the infant she and Quick-Manning had conceived. She replied to the letter, asking the couple to "kiss my babe for me."

On March 24, 1873, Mary Ann was led to the scaffold where the elderly hangman misjudged the logistics of the execution – so instead of dying quickly, Mary Ann struggled after the trapdoor was released, and it took at least three minutes for her to be slowly and painfully strangled by the noose.

Chances are, some of Mary Ann's alleged victims died from natural causes or reasons other than poisoning by her hands. Later researchers of the case would estimate her victims as numbering anywhere from 15 to the full count of 21 people who died while living with or near Mary Ann: ten of her children by various husbands, three of those husbands, five stepchildren, her mother, Cotton's sister Margaret, and her lover Nattrass. Theories of motive range from the collection of insurance money to the desire to rid herself of people that she felt were "obstacles" - or a combination of both.

Because she maintained her innocence to the end, it will never be known for sure how many victims Mary Ann claimed in her endless quest for the money that made her feel secure. Her notoriety continues with her fame as Britain's first female serial killer and in a popular children's rhyme:

Mary Ann Cotton --
She's dead and she's rotten!
She lies in her bed
With her eyes wide open.

Sing, sing!
"Oh, what can I sing?
Mary Ann Cotton is tied up with string."

Where, where?
"Up in the air -- selling black puddings a penny a pair."

Source