LITMIR.BIZ

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      I had the clothes home about twelve o’clock on the Monday following the murder, and in about five minutes after began to search for something that was missing. I did not say anything to the housemaid about anything being missing. I have three daughters. All three daughters were present when I examined the clothes that I brought from Mr. Kent’s. I went up to get my money the next day between eleven and twelve o’clock and saw Mrs. Kent about the missing dress the same evening. I was told then that they were quite sure that Miss Constance’s nightdress had been sent. The police came to my house the first time on the Tuesday evening. I am quite clear about it. Four constables came together and the parish constable as well. I was quite alarmed about it.

      Mrs. Holly might well have been alarmed at such an invasion. But the police had not come to inquire about the nightdress, but to see whether Mrs. Holly could recognize the piece of flannel found with the body. Thus reassured, she decided to say nothing about the nightdress.

      I knew the nightdress was missing at the time, but I did not say anything to them—the police—about it. I told them the clothes were all right by the book. They came to me about the nightdress on the next day. I was expecting the nightdress to be sent to satisfy the book, the same as the other clothes came sometimes.

      No further evidence on this subject was adduced. It seemed to Whicher that quite enough had been said to show what had actually happened. The nightdress seen by Foley and Parsons on the morning after the murder was not the one which Constance had worn the previous night. It had been taken from her chest of drawers after the commission of the crime. This, after being worn on Saturday and Sunday night, was put into the washing basket. Having dispatched the housemaid for a glass of water Constance had abstracted it from the basket to make it appear that it had been lost in the wash. The nightdress in which she had actually committed the crime had been destroyed. She would thus have been found to be short of a nightdress and endeavour to account for this by making it appear that one had been lost in the wash.

      The solicitor for the defence, however, contrived to push the evidence aside. He protested against the arrest of Constance on the grounds that “a paltry bedgown was missing”. He then proceeded to a vicious attack upon Whicher:

      And where is the evidence? The sole fact—and I am ashamed in this land of liberty and justice to refer to it—is the suspicion of Mr. Whicher, a man eager in pursuit of the murderer and anxious for the reward that has been offered. And it is upon his suspicion, unsupported by the slightest evidence whatever, that this step has been taken. The prosecution’s own witnesses have cleared up the point about the bedgown, but because the washerwoman says that a certain bedgown was not sent to her, you are asked to jump to the conclusion that it was not carried away in the clothes basket.

      But there can be no doubt in the mind of any person that the right number of bedgowns has been fully accounted for, and that this little peg upon which he seeks to hang this fearful crime has fallen to the ground. It rested on the evidence of the washerwoman only, and against that you have the testimony of several other witnesses. I do not wish to find fault with Mr. Whicher unnecessarily, but I think in the present instance, his professional eagerness in pursuit of the criminal has led him to take a most unprecedented course to prove a motive.¹

      Constance appears to have displayed very little concern about her arrest. Whicher’s own statement² is evidence of her composure.

      I have made an examination of the premises and I believe that the murder was committed by an inmate of the house. From many inquiries I have made and from information which I have received, I sent for Constance Kent on Monday last to her bed room, having first previously examined her drawers and found a list of her linen, which I now produce, on which are enumerated among other articles of linen, three nightdresses as belonging to her.

      I said to her, “Is this a list of your linen?” and she replied, “Yes.” I then asked, “In whose handwriting is it?” and she answered, “It is in my own writing.” I said, “Here are three nightdresses. Where are they?” She replied, “I have two. The other was lost in the wash a week after the murder.” She then brought the two I now produce. I also saw a nightdress and a nightcap on her bed, and said to her, “Whose are these?” She replied, “They are my sister’s.” The nightdresses were only soiled by being worn.

      This afternoon, I again proceeded to the house and sent for the prisoner in the sitting-room. I said to her: “I am a police officer, and I hold a warrant for your apprehension, charging you with the murder of your brother, Francis Saville Kent, which I will read to you.” I then read the warrant to her and she commenced crying and said, “I am innocent,” which she repeated several times. I then accompanied her to her bedroom where she put on her bonnet and mantle, after which I brought her to this place. She made no further remarks to me.

      On the occasion of her examination before the magistrate, we are told that “at half-past eleven, Constance Emily Kent came in, walking with a faltering step, and going up to her father gave him a trembling kiss.”

      Constance gave evidence before the magistrates on October 3rd, when the charge against Elizabeth was heard. On that occasion she said:

      On Friday, the 29th of June, I was at home. I had been at home for about a fortnight. I had previously been to school as a boarder at Beckington. The little boy who was murdered was at home also. I last saw him in the evening when he went to bed. He was a merry, good-tempered lad, fond of romping. I was accustomed to play with him often. I had played with him that day. He appeared to be fond of me, and I was fond of him. I went to bed at about half-past ten in a room on the second floor, in a room between that of my two sisters and the two maidservants. I remember my sister Elizabeth coming into my room that night. I went to sleep soon after that. I was nearly asleep then. I next woke at about half-past six in the morning. I did not awake in the course of the night, and I heard nothing to disturb me. I got up at half-past six. I had some time after that heard of my brother being missing.

      In reply to questions by the counsel for the prosecution Constance made the following statement:

      On the night of the murder she had slept in her nightdress. She had slept in that nightdress since the previous Sunday or Monday. She usually wore the same nightdress for a week and changed it on Sunday or Monday. This was the same nightdress that she had worn on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. On the Saturday she had slept in the same nightdress she had worn on the previous night. She was not certain whether she had put the clean nightdress on, on the Sunday or the Monday. She did not know what had become of the nightdress of hers which was said to be missing. She had heard the prisoner go to her sisters’ door on Saturday morning to ask if they had the child with them or had taken it away. She was dressing at the time. She heard Elizabeth knock at the door, and went to her own door to listen to hear what it was. Her door was quite close to her sisters’. At that time she was nearly dressed.¹

      It is, perhaps, unnecessary to recount the circumstances under which Constance actually confessed. We are told that,

      she came under religious influence five years after the crime when, filled with deep sorrow and remorse, she told the clergyman of the case, that in order to free others of any suspicion cast on them it was her duty to make a public confession of her guilt. She was told she was right to obey her conscience and make any amends she could. Her life, if spared, could only be one long penance.²

      Constance appeared before the Trowbridge Bench on April 26, 1865. A contemporary report says³:

      She walked with a step which betrayed no emotion, but with downcast eyes and took her seat in the dock. Her conduct in the dock was at first marked by great composure. The past five years had wrought a considerable change in her appearance, she being taller and much more robust and womanly than when she was previously in this neighbourhood. Her deposition was as follows: “I wish to hand in of my own free will, a piece of paper with the following written on it in my own handwriting, ‘I, Constance

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