His journal speaks rationally of money matters, and gives a shrewd picture of Mr. Wood, Helen Kinder’s shiftless father, who, having been told how matters stood between his daughter and the dentist, attempted to make capital out of his knowledge. His brutalities to poor Jane were kept secret, though he thrashed her with a whip and assaulted her with a penknife, after which last incident Jane showed her sister-in-law a pair of corsets soaked with blood. His mother-in-law, who visited the house often, was able to swear in court that he was very kind to her daughter, and by no means a man of strange manners and habits. Bellhouse, told the facts of the murder by Bertrand, casually, after a game of cards, could not make up his mind to believe that what he had heard was the truth, and lay awake all night debating the question. It would seem that in general Bertrand’s manner was normal enough; so that it must have been shocking to hear him offer, over the whist-table, to raise the ghost of the man he had killed; or to look up from that most innocent of occupations, the bathing of a baby, and be told: “Kinder did not shoot himself, I shot him.”
The heroine of the story, Ellen Kinder, makes no such extraordinary impression upon the mind; her behaviour rouses no question. She was a hearty, handsome, practical woman, fond of her pleasures, combining promiscuity with a genuine affection and care for her children. It is easy enough to believe that she yielded to Bertrand from fear; yet her imagination was not of a quality to tell her that the threats he was for ever making against her husband might one day come to action. The passion in her letters has in it a tang of theatre and of the expected. Perhaps this is always so; perhaps the true language of persons moved by great excitement is that of melodrama. “I had rather see you dead at my feet”; “I cannot live without seeing you”; “I shall go mad at the thought of our meeting”—all these are stock phrases which may stand for the expression of genuine as of false emotion. But the voice of the real Ellen Kinder is not to be heard in them. Rather she comes alive in such phrases as these, taken at random from her letters to her lover:
“Papa quite expects me to make a good match one of these days. I tell him I would not give thanks for the best man living, if I could make my own living.”
“I feel my position very much, as I know how little we are able to afford the extra expense we must be at. If there were anything I could do to make it up I should not mind, but there is absolutely nothing. I do not know how things are to go on if it were not for the children.”
“We are almost decided to take an hotel here, but on second thought I do not care much for it. I should not mind a respectable house in Sydney, but this is such a bad place. This is, oh, dreadfully matter of fact, dear dear love, but it is necessary, therefore I hope you will not mind it.”
“You see, deary, an hotel is such a public affair, that my position would be noticeable directly. I should not like to be in a public, and I know that you would not like for me to be a disgrace to everyone connected with me.”
“I must not forget to thank you for seeing about my business. I should like to get into a first-rate establishment for a few weeks to learn dressmaking, as a really good one would do well here. In that case, there is no place like Sydney; but, darling, I leave myself entirely in your hands—feeling, love, you will do everything for the best.”
It is not surprising after all these protestations to note that the first employment found by Mrs. Kinder after her acquittal was in an hotel. She returned to New Zealand, whence she had come three years before; a public-house keeper with some sense of the value of advertisement engaged her as barmaid, in which position she was completely successful. Almost at once, however, she married again, and, for all anyone at this date can tell, died full of years and highly respected.
by John Rhode
THE name of Constance Kent and the nature of the extraordinary crime to which she eventually confessed are familiar to almost everybody. For this reason I do not propose to give a detailed description of the crime itself. To those who wish to peruse it more fully, many sources are available.1 My present purpose is to deal with the curious personality of the criminal herself in the light of information which has become available during the past few years.
A brief résumé of the crime may, however, be found convenient. Mr. Samuel Saville Kent had at one time been in business in the City of London. About 1834 he obtained the appointment of Sub-Inspector of Factories for the West of England, which was then the important centre of the cloth trade. In the year 1860 he was living at Road Hill House, on the border of Somerset and Wiltshire. The house stands back from the road, by which it is approached by a carriage drive. It is of a fair size, and then stood in about half an acre of ground laid out as lawn, shrubbery, kitchen-garden and flower-garden. On the right-hand side of the house, looking from the drive, was a spacious paved courtyard communicating with the kitchen and domestic offices on the one side, and on the other with the kitchen-garden. Two pairs of large and high gates opened out of the yard, one pair into a lane running parallel to the side of the house, the other into the carriage drive. Outside the latter gates and to the right of them, was a small shrubbery, concealing a detached earth-closet. At the period of the crime this closet was rarely used, the house having been fitted with inside sanitation.
On the evening of Friday, June 29, 1860, the house was occupied by twelve individuals. These were Mr. Kent; his second wife, who was then expecting a confinement; three daughters: Mary Ann, Elizabeth and Constance; and a son, William, of Mr. Kent’s first marriage. Two daughters, Mary Amelia and Emilie, and a son, Francis Saville, of Mr. Kent’s second marriage. The cook, the housemaid and the nurse, by name Elizabeth Gough. On this particular evening there was no deviation from the routine of the house. Mr. and Mrs. Kent slept in a room on the first floor. This room was in the front of the house. Separated from it by a fairly wide passage at the end of which was a dressing-room, was the nursery. In the nursery slept Elizabeth Gough and the two younger children of the second marriage: Francis Saville, aged four, and Emilie, aged two. Mary Amelia, eldest child of the second marriage, slept in the room occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Kent. The remaining rooms on the first floor were unoccupied. On the second floor the two eldest daughters of the first marriage, Mary Ann and Elizabeth, slept together in the room above that occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Kent. Constance Kent slept alone in the adjoining room, above the passage and the dressing-room. The cook and housemaid slept together in the room adjoining hers above the nursery. It is worthy of remark that the partitions between these three rooms were very thin and there is abundant evidence that sounds originating in one room could be heard in that next door. On this floor, looking out at the back of the house, was the room occupied by William Kent. Two other rooms were unoccupied.
At the usual hour, which was half-past seven, Elizabeth Gough put the youngest child Emilie to bed in the nursery. Half an hour later she put Francis Saville to bed, also in the nursery. The remainder of the family retired in rotation. Before the cook went to bed she fastened and secured the domestic offices. Similarly, before she went to bed, the housemaid fastened and secured the remainder of the ground floor, including a french window in the drawing-room which looked out towards the back of the house. The nurse went to bed a little before eleven, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Kent in the dining-room. She was some time in the nursery before she undressed, having her supper and tidying up. While she was thus occupied Mrs. Kent came into the room and looked at the children asleep in bed. Mrs. Kent then went downstairs and came up to bed a few minutes later. Until this moment the nursery door had been open in order that the nurse might hear any sound from the child who was sleeping in the Kent’s room. As she went to bed, Mrs. Kent shut this door. Mr. Kent was the last to retire. He went to bed a little before midnight, having, according to his own subsequent statement, examined all the fastenings in the house.
At five o’clock the next morning the nurse awoke. She looked at Francis’ cot and found that he was no longer there. This occasioned