Newspaper Clipping of the Day

From the Illustrated Police News, October 8, 1892, via Newspapers.com

Meet Miss Vint, beloved Crazy Cat Lady Emeritus, and a woman with an admirably open-minded sense of family ties. From the "Royal Cornwall Gazette," October 6, 1892:

It is probably to no small extent due to the circumstance that she is not a rich woman that Miss Vint, of Eden-gardens, Walworth, is permitted to enjoy the sweets of liberty. If, instead of a modest income of but little more than a hundred per annum, she were possessed of thousands of pounds, and in place of having no relatives at all she were blessed with kith and kin that took as lively an interest in her affairs as in their own, it is not impossible that her present place of residence would be Hanwell or Colney Hatch, which would be a thousand pities, as well on the harmless lady's own account as on that of her feline friends and companions, who share with her the comforts of home.

Regarded as a cat case, that of Miss Vint differs widely from some lately brought under magisterial notice. The lady in question is not a person selfishly eccentric in the matter of tabbies and tortoiseshells, harbouring them indiscriminately, and in such a way that they become a nuisance, calling for the interference of the sanitary inspector. Although Miss Vint owns and houses several cats, male and female, the most fastidious next-door neighbours could establish no just ground of complaint against them. They are a highly respectable and cleanly family of pussies, eschewing low company, and having nothing to say to the loose-living, prowling vagabonds of their kind haunting the locality, and who, no doubt, would take delight in demoralising them.

I am not speaking from hearsay. I have been honoured with an interview with Miss Vint, who first questioning me as to my belief in the doctrines of Pythagoras, and satisfying herself that my faith in that ancient philosopher was unassailable, introduced me to her subjects. I have stated that Miss Vint has no relatives; but that, as she regards it, is scarcely correct. She has a mother and father, an aunt Deborah, a sister, and two brothers, all of whom have departed biped life, but live again in feline form, and are dependent on her, their only human relief, to provide for and make them comfortable. I may mention that Miss Vint is a maiden lady, prim and neat, tall, with silvery hair worn in old-fashioned French curls, with a mild and pleasing manner, and, barring cats, I verily believe, as sane as Solomon.

Of the way in which she first became imbued with a belief in transmigration, Miss Vint is reluctant to speak. She admitted, however, that it came to her through her grandmother, of whom she was particularly fond. The old lady, it seemed, when in the flesh had, amongst many more, three peculiarities: grey eyes, that were of not exactly the same colour, a wart on her nose, and a terror of lucifer matches. Up to the last she stuck to the old flint-and-steel method of obtaining a light, the sharp crackling sound caused by striking a lucifer match causing her a nervous shock from which she did not recover for hours afterwards. Her grandmother lived in Devonshire, and on the very day, before Miss Vint was made aware of the demise of her aged relative, there mysteriously appeared to her a kitten. The chamber door being shut and locked, and Miss Vint not having as yet risen from her couch, there suddenly leapt upon it the animal mentioned. It purred at the pillow, and commenced to mew plaintively, whereon Miss Vint opened her eyes, and the kitten at the same moment expanding hers, the lady was instantly struck by the discovery that it had eyes of the grey of her grandmother, and that one of them was a shade lighter in hue than the other, From Kitty's optics, Miss Vint glanced at its pink little nose, and lo! there was a wart? It was winter-time, and scarcely daylight, and with a strange sensation creeping over bar, she leant out of bed to strike a light and as she did so the kitten uttered a cry of affright, and leaping down from the counterpane ran to hide in a distant corner.

Such evidences were, to an unbiased mind, irresistible, and Miss Vint waited only to hear that her grandmother had ceased to exist within a few minutes of the appearance of the kitten on the bed, when she literally took the creature to her bosom, regarding it as a sacred duty to adopt it. Her own mother and father being dead, it was but natural that she should wonder whether they too existed in similar bodily tenements. Bearing in mind those of their characteristics that would most "likely reappear" in animal shape--her father was lame in his left foot--only a short time elapsed before she recovered both her parents, and within a very few months her Aunt Deborah as well. If anything was needed to convince Miss Vint that it was really her own mother in catskin she was cherishing, it was provided when the animal in question put in an uninvited appearance. Aunt Deborah, it seemed, and old Mrs. Vint could never agree in human life. The former was a cross-grained, red-haired woman, and afflicted with a squint, and so was the cat that, forcing its way into the premises and refusing to be "hished" away, pertinaciously picked a quarrel with its whilom sister and fought and scratched her. Had it been a simple question of preserving peace and quietness, Miss Vint, as she herself assured me, would have got rid of the carroty creature by some means or other; but the feelings of a niece prevailed with her, and she permitted it to remain.

Miss Vint's feline relatives had each for its domicile one of a range of boxes, comfortable and capacious, fixed pigeon-hole fashion against the further wall of her large kitchen. A soft bed of hay was provided, and above every doorway appeared the name of the occupier. "Aunt Deborah's" name so appeared, and she was at home. A strong, wrong-headed, sulky-looking cat, she arched her back and spat at me when I attempted to stroke her. "I am sadly afraid," Miss Vint remarked in an undertone and with a sigh, as we turned away from the boxes and returned to the fireplace, "that I shall always have trouble with her." "Is she, then, in the habit of misbehaving herself?" "She is a wicked, wicked creature," whispered the poor lady. "A thief perhaps?" She glanced round, expecting, I believe, that the carrotty cat was listening, and then, screening her mouth with her hand, replied, "Worse, far worse than that. She is a murderess. She killed her own mother--the kind old soul I told you of, and who originally died in Devonshire. She ought, no doubt, to have been long ago dealt with according to law, but the puzzle is, to what law is she answerable? Anyhow, it would be a hard thing for a niece to denounce her aunt, whatever her shape, for such a terrible crime." "But then, again, it might have been an accident." "You are very kind," returned Miss Vint gratefully, "to make such a suggestion, but unfortunately I myself witnessed it, and a more cruel or cold-blooded deed was never committed. She was, as usual, wrangling with her sister when dear old granny interfered, and she at once flew at her, and, seizing her by the throat, strangled her before I could separate them. It has weighed heavily on my mind ever since. It is two years ago, but I feel that I can never forgive her."

"And what as to the other members of your interesting family?--your transmigrated sister, and your three brothers--are they tolerably tractable?" " Well, thank goodness," said Miss Vint, "they give me scarcely any trouble at all. As for my ' Sister Minnie,' no creature, human or otherwise, could be more faithful or affectionate." She called "Minnie, Minnie," and quite a handsome large white cat jumped down from its box, and gracefully leaping first up its mistress's extended arm, and then on her shoulder, putting its cheek against hers. "And by what sign or taken were you able to identify Minnie as your 'departed sister?'" 'Well, that I am scarcely able to explain," she made answer, as she caressed her feline relative. "It was more the prompting of nature than anything else. My dear sister had blue eyes--she was seventeen when she died--a pretty, mincing way of walking, and this darling had the same. There was nothing else, that just drew us together, except that Minnie, my sister, used to take pride in a pink sash worn over her white frock, and Minnie, when she first came here and scratched at the parlour window, had a pink ribbon tied round her throat. She returned her "sister Minnie "' to her box and called "Micah," and gravely introduced the speckled animal to me as her elder brother. The feline Micah was excessively fat and whiskerless, and, as Miss Vint declared, such a living likeness of the firstborn of her respected parents that she recognised him at first sight. It was fortunate that she was able to do so. It was more than a mile distant from Eden-gardens; and the wretched cat was being stoned to death by ragamuffin boys when the identification took place; and the boys were instantly routed and "Micah" rescued.

Observing another box labelled "Job," I inquired for the animal hearing that name, and Miss Vint's face at once assumed an anxious expression. "Conscientiously," she remarked, "I have some doubts respecting Master Job. "As to his being deserving of your confidence and protection, do you mean ?" "Oh, he would be quite welcome to both, of course, if I could feel quite certain as to his previous life, but I must own that at times I am troubled with doubts. The points of resemblance are more in character than in features. Job, my own brother, was not a steady lad. He got into trouble with a young woman before he was twenty-three and ran away and went to sea, and the only letter ever received from him was one that bore the Persian post-mark. That is many years ago, and, as I need not tell you, it made me very anxious, he being my only remaining relative. My belief is, however," and the lady placed her hand on my arm and looked wondrous wise, "that Job Vint died at sea, probably in the Persian Gulf, on the night of February 7th, 1887." "And what is it that enables you to fix the date so exactly?" "Because, sir, that night I was awoke by cries of distress, as of a creature struggling for its life, and, opening the staircase window, near which is this cistern, the lid of which my maid had accidentally left open the day before, there saw, gasping for breath and in the act of sinking, a Persian cat and as it opened its month I observed that it was deficient of some of its front teeth, which was the case with my brother Job, who had lost them in fighting when a boy. I saved its life and took it in, and from that moment called it Job, and treated it as such. But I don't know!" and she shook her grey curls dubiously. "His propensity for roaming is certainly like that of my younger brother, but he was always fond of me, and the cat is not. The only person he shows any regard for is the cat's-meat man, and he would sooner sleep of nights in the dustbin than in his comfortable bed here. I may have made a mistake, but if 1 have," and Miss Vint brightened up, "thank goodness, it is the only one." I did not have the heart to contradict her.

I, myself, would never dream of contradicting Miss Vint. I hope she and her resurrected relatives had a long and happy life together.  (Well, maybe except for Aunt Deborah.)

And that putting her family tree together later gave genealogists fits.

Justice and Jessie Costello

In that pantheon of Great Female Murder Defendants, an otherwise obscure housewife named Jessie Costello--part Lucretia Borgia, part vaudeville act--manages to stand out. Nowadays, it has become almost the norm for people involved in sensational crimes to try capitalizing on their notoriety. In the 1930s, this was a relative rarity, which makes Mrs. Costello's unrepentant enjoyment of standing trial for poisoning her husband curiously contemporary. Her unique personality single-handedly transformed this otherwise mundane murder into a dazzling slice of The Weird.

She was, you might say, simply a killer ahead of her time.

Jessie was born in Peabody, Massachusetts in 1902. At the age of 21, she married a fireman named William Costello. It was an odd match. Jessie was uninhibited, outgoing, a zestfully pagan flapper eager to use her short skirts, bobbed hair, and utter lack of principles to conquer the world. Bill Costello, on the other hand, was a quiet, serious man: a devout Irish Catholic who spent several hours of the day praying and most of the rest of his free time fretting about his chronic indigestion.

Well, opposites attract, at least for a while. The couple soon had four children, and appeared to have settled down to a long and peaceful, if somewhat drab, life together.

Well, Bill settled down, at any rate. Jessie, on the other hand, became more like a caged tiger each year. By the time she hit thirty, she was desperate for excitement and adventure--any outlet to take her out of what she saw as an insufferably suffocating existence.

Unfortunately, the best outlet available for her in the likes of Peabody proved to be a married policeman named Edward J. McMahon. He was no Clark Gable: McMahon is invariably described as a rather lumpish, none-too-bright sort. But still, he was better than nothing for our restless Massachusetts Madame Bovary. She nicknamed the young cop "Big Boy," and more-or-less dragged him into her bed. Jessie found her adulterous adventure so liberating that--according to later prosecuting attorneys, at least--it may well have inspired her to seek freedom in rather more drastic ways.

One morning in February 1933, a door-to-door fudge saleswoman named Nellie Ayers came to the Costello residence. After a little chat, Jessie agreed to buy a pound of candy. She went upstairs to get the money, only to quickly return with the news that she had discovered the dead body of her husband on the bathroom floor.

"She screamed something terrible," Mrs. Ayers recalled.

Mrs. Costello announced that she could not think of sweets at the moment, and sent Mrs. Ayers on her way. The indignant candy-peddler would eventually make her own small mark on the case by grumbling to the press about this bit of double-dealing.

Despite Jessie's cheerful prediction that "They'll have to go like hell to find any poison in Bill with all that embalming fluid in him," an autopsy revealed that Bill Costello met his end via cyanide of potassium. Investigators also learned that on the day before his death, Mrs. Costello had made a purchase of that very substance. When asked if she had any poison in the house, Jessie issued a scornful denial.

Did she or did she not recently buy cyanide?

"Why, yes, if you call that poison!" she snorted.

The result of all this was that in the summer of 1933, the courthouse in Salem was treated to a show unlike anything American jurisprudence had seen to date. Thanks to movies and radio, the Age of Celebrity had begun, and Jessie Costello was determined to make the most of it. The newly-minted widow saw murder charges as not a threat, but an opportunity!

Mrs. Costello entering the courthouse

Jessie's vivid, if slightly overripe, good looks, brassy personality, and utter unconcern for the fact that she was facing a capital murder charge fascinated the nation. Newspapers chronicled every moment of the trial. People from all over New England sped to Salem in the hopes of catching a glance of this new public idol in person. Jessie had obtained her fondest dream--to become the center of all attention--and she was loving every minute of it.

A characteristic Costello photo-op.

The facts presented at the trial were virtually irrelevant to The Jessie Show, which was just as well for the defendant. There was the pharmacist who sold Mrs. Costello the cyanide, warning her it was a deadly poison. The friends of the victim who all testified that on the day of his death, Bill had been in the best of health and spirits. The fact that Jessie couldn't wait until her husband was even buried before eagerly collaring his life insurance money. There were, of course, her X-rated dealings with Patrolman McMahon (who was, by now, widely reviled as the "Kiss and Tell Cop" for his willingness to reveal under oath every remarkably lurid detail about their affair.) McMahon stated that he once told Jessie that their affair must end, as he was doing "the wrong thing to a good friend like Bill Costello." She replied, "Don't be silly. I've got enough stuff in my bag to end it all for you and for me."

Patrolman Kiss-and-Tell

There was the fact that a gelatin-like substance was found in Bill Costello's stomach, suggesting that he had swallowed the poison as a capsule. Jessie, of course, vehemently denied that she had ever so much as seen a capsule in her life. Unfortunately for her, the prosecution was able to establish that four months before her husband's death, she had purchased a box of empty capsules.

There was the testimony of Jessie's own father, Andrew Fyfe. He said that, shortly before his son-in-law's death, Bill and Jessie had argued violently over her relationship with McMahon--an argument that ended with Bill hitting his wife. Jessie, Fyfe recalled, delivered a profanity-heavy outburst and the declaration that Bill had better watch himself, because "I'll damned well show you that I have brains when I get ready to use them!"

"Bill would never have done that if he knew Jessie as well as he thought he did," commented Fyfe.

Jessie, always smiling, dismissed every bit of evidence against her in a blithe way that had an undeniable charm. The pharmacist? Lies. He never warned her cyanide was dangerous; why, she left his shop under the impression that it was a perfectly harmless substance for cleaning the family boiler. Despite what everyone else who knew her husband might think, Bill was in reality, an ailing, (that indigestion!) pain-wracked soul, so tormented in body and mind that he saw nothing for it but to reach for the boiler polish and end it all. And Mr. McMahon was just the worst sort of lying scoundrel. Why, she barely knew the man, and their relationship was as innocent as a spring morning!

No one believed her, of course, but by this point everyone was too entranced by Jessie and what crime historian Edmund Pearson (who attended some sessions of the trial) described as her "glittering ophidian eyes" to care. The joyful zest she took from the situation seemed contagious. During her trial, everyone involved seems to have gone stark staring mad. The bailiff sent her roses every morning. Cheering crowds surrounded her as she skipped merrily to and from the courthouse. During recesses, the jurors formed an amateur choir that serenaded the crowds with versions of "Let Me Call You Sweetheart," and other popular tunes. The defendant was getting as many as five hundred love-letters a day. The papers--led on by that king of purple prose, William Randolph Hearst--were full of enticing, if somewhat inaccurate accounts breathlessly describing Jessie's charm, Jessie's beauty, Jessie's general irresistibleness. Dorothy Kilgallen, one of the journalists covering the trial, later wrote, "Jessie was lush and talkative. She beamed at one and all from her seat at the defense table, blushed prettily now and then when witnesses testified against her, and when she herself testified, it was with such rapidity that the court stenographer had to halt her every few minutes to catch up with her patter. She explained things to the jurors with the easy gossipy manner of a woman exchanging the time of day with her neighbor across the fence...before the trial was over, several jurors sent her flowers and all had chipped in to buy her a box of candy." It was very probably the most festive murder trial in American history.

What else could the jury do but return an acquittal?

When contemplating this amazing verdict, Pearson theorized that the all-male panel was led by "the ancient belief that 'a woman couldn't do such a thing,'" but I think it's more likely that the jury simply didn't want to spoil the fun everyone was having.

The trial was over. Jessie was acquitted, if not exactly exonerated, and she was sure her road to stardom was just beginning. Her ex-inamorato McMahon (who had been dismissed from the force due to the trial's juicy revelations) may have been content to accept a job with Lydia Pinkham, that famed peddler of "women's tonics," but Jessie aimed far higher. She was going to milk her notoriety with everything she had. Broadway beckoned!

Impresarios showered Jessie with offers. Hollywood begged her for screen tests. She was given $1100 simply to appear on stage for four days in a New York theater. She bought a lavish wardrobe and began to make the rounds of all the fashionable resorts, where she was feted by the likes of Walter Winchell and "New York Daily News" reporter Ed Sullivan.

Unfortunately, Will Hays, that notable film censor and general guardian of morals, was not among Jessie's admirers. Strange to say, he expressed disapproval of the the idea that this woman should profit from the murder of her husband. He said in no uncertain terms that Mrs. Costello could forget about a career in film, and the studio bosses meekly obeyed.

Jessie, undaunted, continued spending. A lavish country cottage, expensive gifts, fine furniture. She was presented with lucrative contracts to appear in burlesque houses, performing "clean but affectionate" skits dramatizing her relations with Patrolman McMahon, but she indignantly rejected such tawdry offers. After all, what sort of woman did they think she was?

And then, predictably--well, predictably to everyone but Jessie--her brief notoriety faded, and the offers dried up. The end of her fifteen minutes left Mrs. Costello utterly flabbergasted. She had fallen into the trap of believing her own press, and she honestly thought the good times would never end. Desperate to revive her fame, she went to the same burlesque houses she had previously rejected as beneath her, only to be told that they were no longer interested. Worse still, her once-adoring public had finally recovered their senses, and saw her for what, jury be damned, she logically was--a cold-blooded poisoner. Jessie, who had so short a time back, dreamed of Broadway stardom, was reduced to working as a "hostess" in a Boston pub.

It looked like the end of the road. But Jessie Costello, whatever else she may have been, was no quitter. If one road was closed to her, well, she'd take another. In October of 1933, she announced that she had found religion, and would henceforth be joining forces with "the noted Los Angeles Evangelist, Mrs. Aimee Semple MacPherson." One of Mrs. MacPherson's representatives told the press that "We hope Mrs. Jessie will come into the great blessing of God's love. I get down on my knees and pray with her."

Yes, Jessie was ready for the Lord. But was the Lord ready for Jessie?

Mrs. MacPherson decidedly was not. She could not help but notice that the crowds were not cheering the ostensible star of the show, but her vivacious, hymn-belting, hip-shaking sidekick. As had been the case during her trial, being in front of a crowd made Jessie bloom like a greenhouse full of orchids. In short, Aimee was finding herself upstaged.

To be fair, Jessie Costello could probably upstage God himself when she was in fine form.

Despite Mrs. MacPherson's defensive comment that "In the Lord's work, one is not afraid of a pretty face," she unceremoniously ejected Jessie from her entourage.

Jessie, it seems, was just too much for either God or the Devil. The money she earned during her short heyday quickly dried up. She and her children were evicted from the sumptuous home she had so briefly occupied. Her sole source of income came when she applied for the pension she was due as the widow of a war veteran. She received $65 dollars a month. All she had left were remnants of a fancy wardrobe and old press clippings.

Jessie last made the papers when a farmer from New Hampshire turned up on her doorstep and offered marriage. He was a widower with some money tucked away, he explained, and could support her and her children comfortably.

Mrs. Costello scornfully refused the offer. She was still planning a big comeback, which she could hardly do if she was buried on some remote farm. "I shall climb again," she told a reporter.

Jessie never did, but when she died at the age of 68 in March 1971, she at least proved that, although gone, she was not forgotten. Nearly two hundred people attended her funeral, including the mayor and the chief of police.

Perhaps this was their way of saying "Thanks for the memories."

Weekend Link Dump, Second Annual Run For the Roses Edition

Strange Company is looking forward to tomorrow's Kentucky Derby.

Burgarry and unnamed feline friend, "Canberra Times," April 7, 1966

And, of course, the cats are saddled up and heading for the starting gate.

Behold the weekly dose of links:

What the hell happened to Marvin Clark?

What the hell is this South African...fish?

Here's what the hell happened to Einstein's brain.

Watch out for those Hairy Men!

Watch out for those Mongolian Death Worms!

Watch out for those Workhouse Women!

Watch out for those Tudor Neighbors!

Watch out for those British Werecats!

Watch out for those Jet Chickens!

Watch out for those headless miners!

Watch out for those hatpins!

Indiana is really sinking!

Turns out that "Louis XVI's" blood was a ringer.

More on those Battling Booses I linked to last week.

How two young women bicycled across America in 1944.

Some interesting accounts of blind people and near-death experiences.

And don't ignore the possible animal NDEs!

The real Valley of the Dolls.  I like quiet neighbors.

The damnable Byron H. Robb and his electro-magnetic brushes.

All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream...

The Devil visits Copenhagen, 1826.

The real Hell's Angels:  Tales of ghostly cyclists.

Louise Mourey, scandalous midwife.

Out:  Roman Empire brought down by lead.  In:  Roman Empire brought down  by concrete!

A brief history of burning libraries.

A Martian tourist takes a selfie.

Young women are visited by awful, beer-guzzling monsters.  No, no, that's not a preview of my Derby party tomorrow, but it probably comes pretty close.

The Parisian Sweeney Todd.

The hidden history of the "Victorian Titanic."

The Great Diamond Hoax of 1871.

Jane Austen goes to war.

Cold Nose College, where you can earn a degree in training chickens.

Or perhaps you would prefer to enroll in the Thespian Horse College?

Dueling in 18th century Dublin:  a how-to guide.

Mock-dueling in 19th century France: a how-not-to guide.

Behaving badly in 18th century Harvard: another how-to guide.

A look back at the Raven Poetry Circle.

Shakespeare vs. Prince Philip.

Solving the riddle of the "time-travel murder."

A 16th century Facebook.

Atlit Yam:  a submerged 9,000 year old settlement.

The "S" stands for nothing: The renaming of Hiram Ulysses Grant.

Paul Revere's Ride:  no big deal?

Sir Isaac Newton, UFO hoaxer.

Birth of a legend: The debut of Spring-Heeled Jack.

On Darwin and extraterrestrial life.

And, finally, behold the Sacred Hierarchy of Victorian Beards.

To digress a bit:  Last year at this time, I invited everyone to suggest a horse for me to bet in the Derby.  It proved to be a wash-out, financially speaking (I'm not sure if Verrazano has crossed the finish line yet) so, naturally, I'm eager to do it again this year.  Because that's just how my mind works.

"California Chrome had a message for his @KentuckyDerby competition this morning" - @ABRLive pic.twitter.com/rlan01NzMW
— Santa Anita Park (@santaanitapark) April 30, 2014

I have to say that I'll be rooting for California Chrome.  His trainer, Art Sherman, is a friend of a friend of mine, so I'd like to see him win.  Sherman's one of the good guys.  Besides, I feel I owe some loyalty to him because the other weekend he gave me a tip on another horse of his who won at very handsome odds.  But if anyone has any other horses they like, say so in the comments.  If I get any suggestions from you, I'll use them with CC for an exotic bet.  Picture the honor of telling all your friends you helped a fifth-rate blogger with an audience that could fit into a golf cart cash her first Derby ticket since the Reagan Administration.  Here's the field.  (Note:  Hoppertunity has been scratched.)

May the horse be with us!  See you Monday, with the story of one of my favorite female poisoners.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Here's a change of place for this blog:  no murder mysteries, no weird bloodstains, no ghosts. Just a slice of life in a London courtroom that I found to be a rather delightful Victorian vignette. It comes from the November 23, 1878 issue of what is rapidly becoming my favorite publication, the "Illustrated Police News."

William Needham, of Lucas-street, Commercial-road East, appeared to answer a summons taken out against him by "Professor" Moffat, trainer of performing animals, for detaining a black and tan English terrier dog. Mr. Moffat, who resides at 40 Dean-street, Commercial-road, said he was a trainer of  "professional" dogs, sheep, goats and other animals. It was his business to instruct the creatures in the particular line in which they were required to perform. About nine months ago he had a black and tan terrier dog in his possession, but by some means the dog got astray and he lost it. Last week, when he was passing through High-street, Stepney, he saw the dog in the defendant's possession, and at once went up and claimed the animal. The defendant, however, declared that the dog belonged to him, and refused to part with it. They together went with an officer to the Arbour-square station, and then, as defendant still persisted in his refusal to part with the dog, the inspector on duty advised witness to apply to the court for a summons, and this he accordingly did.

Mr. Lushington inquired how witness identified the dog. Witness said he identified it from its general appearance, also from some marks it had on its head. The dog was a great favourite, and shortly before witness lost it had been in the habit of going through the "trapeze" business with a cat. (Laughter.) His worship: What? A performing cat? I did not knew there was such an animal. Witness said that he had a performing cat, and he believed it to be the only performing cat in Europe or the world. The dog, whose "professional" name was "Soot," could do the "trapeze" very well, with "Jim," the cat. (Laughter.) The witness added that he had the cat with him, and with his worship's permission he would show him what the cat could do. He then put his hand into a capacious bag he had with him and produced the renowned "Jim," to the gaze of the audience.

Although there were a large number of persons standing about the Court, "Jim" seemed nothing daunted at his position in the witness box, but looked round with a self-satisfied and complacent air. At a word of command from his master he stretched himself out stiffly, as if dead, lying thus for some few minutes, apparently oblivious to all around. At the words "fat mutton," however, Puss at once started into active life and frisked and gamboled about like a three months' old kitten. He was then told to answer to his name when called upon, which he did in a series of loud "mews," and he followed this by standing straight up on his hind legs and kissing his master with apparently much affection. Mr. Moffat then held up a stick, on which "Jim" jumped, and hung by his hind legs, swinging about a la Leotard amidst considerable laughter.

via British Library

Mr. Moffatt then called to the dog, who, however, did not come forward to perform his part as "Jim" had done. Two witnesses then were then examined for the complainant, and they had seen the dog, and believed it to be the property of Mr. Moffatt.

In reply to the case, the defendant stated that he had had the dog four years and a half. It was given him by a female friend who was about to go abroad. He called witnesses to prove that this was the case, and one of them, a Mr. Bann, was very positive as to the identity of the animal. His worship enquired what made him so sure. Witness: Oh, some long time ago, sir, he bit me in the leg, and I have always remembered him well ever since. (Laughter.) His worship: Then the dog is no friend or yours? Witness: Oh, no, sir; an enemy. (Renewed laughter.) After some further evidence had been called, his worship stated that he did not think the complainant had made out his title to the dog, and he therefore dismissed the summons.

Alas, it will be forever lost to history whether or not this dog really was Soot, and if the Professor was ever reunited with his trapeze-performing dog.

Luckily,  he still had the renowned Jim.

The Pilots Who Walked Away: Answering a Fortean Riddle

The mystery involving Flight-Lieutenant William Conway Day (his name is usually erroneously given as "W.T. Day,") and Pilot Officer Douglas Ramsay Stewart retains a lasting fame largely through its inclusion in Charles Fort's influential book "Wild Talents."  In 1924, the two members of the Royal Air Force were stationed in Iraq, where their main duty was to make routine reconnaissance flights.

On July 24, the two men set out on one of these missions, which was to take about three hours. They never returned.

When a search party set out for them, their plane was easily found. It had been parked—not crashed—on the desert floor. There was gas in the tank, and the plane was undamaged. Extra clothing and water supplies were still in the plane. The only things missing from the craft were its pilots.

No reason could be found why the men should have landed. The weather had been good, and there were no signs of any attack. Footprints of both men could be clearly seen around the plane. They had evidently walked side by side for about forty yards away from their plane. Then, the prints abruptly ceased.

All anyone could imagine was that the pilots had been kidnapped by Bedouins, who then used implements to carefully wipe out their tracks. It was pointed out at the time that this made little sense. If they wished to remove footprints, why not destroy all of them? Since they could not keep up this erasing technique indefinitely, why were no other prints found anywhere in the area? And this theory still failed to answer the initial mystery: Why did the men land in the first place?

Still, that was the only relatively sane explanation anyone could concoct for the disappearance of the men, so they stubbornly stuck to it. An extensive search was made in the region, and the local tribesmen were offered a reward for any information about the vanished pilots, but it all proved to be an utter waste of time. The men, or any clues to their fate, could not be found.

When I wrote the first draft of this post, I assumed that Fort was correct when he described Day and Stewart's disappearance as an unsolved mystery.  However, while searching through old newspaper databases, I discovered that in March of 1925, British papers reported that the Air Ministry had received "official intimation" that the skeletons of Day and Stewart had been found in the desert. As the Lanarkshire, Scotland "Sunday Post" commented on March 8, "This only adds to the baffling mystery of the officers' deaths, and to-day the Air Ministry could offer no theory as to how the officers met their fate."

It was suggested that the men had been forced to land their plane because of a sudden sandstorm. Contrary to the earlier reports about the disappearances, it was now said that when their plane had been discovered, it was "slightly damaged" and repairs had to be made on it before it could be flown back to where their squadron was stationed.

The newspapers stated that the bones of Flight-Lieutenant Day had been found in February. Stewart's were discovered some days later, at a spot five or six miles distant. After the bodies were identified as the missing pilots through dental records, they were buried in Basra with military honors.

It was theorized that Day had been slightly injured in the landing, (traces of blood were found on the plane,) and that when the two men set out to hike to safety, he collapsed and died. "Then possibly Stewart pushed on in the hope that he might find help for his injured comrade, only himself to be overcome by the heat...The failure earlier to discover the remains was probably due to the ever shifting sands, swept in storms across the desert."  There was an official military inquiry into the deaths, which evidently came to this same conclusion.

It seems that this near-legendary Fortean tragedy, which has spawned speculation about everything from underground caverns to UFO abductions, had a simple, if somewhat curious explanation, which was well-known at the time, but has since been forgotten and overlooked.

[Note: Cf. this previous post about another pair of disappearing pilots.]

Weekend Link Dump

Strange Company says, "Rejoice!  It's Friday!"

And the cats answer, "Big deal."

On to this week's Link Library:

What the hell is happening to streetlights?

What the hell happened in the Rendlesham forest?

What the hell is sending radio signals through the universe?

Watch out for that Flirty Fishing!

Watch out for John Farkas!

Watch out for the ghosts of your murder victims!

Watch out for those Russian ghost cars!

Watch out for those Japanese Fire Horses!

Olympia is really humming!

A look at what it's like to interview psychopaths for years.  Anyone who's spent an extended amount of time on social media will be able to relate to this one.

And this, kids, is why it's not a good idea to release over a million balloons into the air at once.

Lincoln's assassination, as noted in the D.C. police blotter.

A rare look at how most women really dressed in the 19th century.

In the mood for some vintage photos of France?  Here's the blog for you!

Exorcising Nessie.

Exorcising Prince Edward Island.

How to make Bronze Age beer.

Oh, just another story about a guy and his geese going sailing on the Thames.

A tale of a mysterious house key.

Last week, I introduced you to DIY mermaids.  The next step?  Why, DIY mummified fairies, of course!

Jan Ziska, a different drum, indeed.

The world's first trans-Atlantic stowaway.

Showed him, didn't she?

Oh, sweet freaking Jesus.

The last casualty of World War I:  Appropriately enough for the Great War, it was a pitiful, weird, and altogether unnecessary death.

Some Boos for the Boos:  A slice of early 20th century Los Angeles Noir.

It's the Great Pumpkin, Philander Worden!

E.B. White presents us with a little dog poetry.

The revered heart of pioneering aviator Alberto Santos-Dumont.

The story of India's first female monarch.

Photos of New Yorkers at work, 1896.

New York's Great Peacock Standoff, 1935.

So, on top of everything else, Adolf Hitler was a lazy sod.

George Washington's hippopotamus.

Quote of the week: "It's not every day you see someone taking a fish for a walk."

And, finally, a video that gives a glimpse of Crazy Cat Lady Heaven:



Well, there you have it for this week. See you on Monday, when I look at two mysterious disappearances made famous by Charles Fort...and present a long-forgotten solution to the puzzle.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

This story contains a bonus: mystery blood and mystery check marks! This brief, but highly unsettling tale appeared in the "Los Angeles Times" on July 23, 1912:

J.D. Smith, who lives at No. 420 East Forty-first street, returned home after a trip through the state yesterday and found that his house had been entered while he was absent. On the door was a mysterious check mark.

Smith noticed the pencil mark when he entered the front porch. When he entered the parlor he found lying near the piano was a soft, light gray hat covered with blood. There were blood stains on the carpet and blood streaks on the piano. The lid of the instrument had been cracked from one end to the other. An inventory showed that nothing had been stolen.

When Smith interrogated the neighbors he found that four other front doors had been marked with a similar check mark as that adorns his front door. No one professed to having seen either men or boys in or about the Smith house during his absence.

Detectives are investigating. They are inclined to the belief that boys entered the house and that the blood stains and broken piano resulted from a fight.

I have not found any more about this story, which is a pity. There was obviously some sort of "normal"--if creepy--explanation for all this, but I would sure like to know what in hell it might have been.