A DEAD SHOT.

AN INCIDENT IN 1801.

The following singular story is perhaps worth putting on record because the narrative is strictly true.

In the year 1801, a fine old Jacobean house, known as Chatford House, situated on the borders of Devon and Somerset, was in the occupation of a Mr Edward Leggett, a wealthy farmer, and his two sons. The house, like many of its class, had originally been built so that its ground-plan formed the letter a centre, with projecting doorway, and two wings; but one wing had been taken down altogether, as well as a portion of the other, so that the ground-plan became thereby altered and took this form, the centre doorway remaining untouched. This should be remembered, in order to understand the circumstances of the principal incident of the narrative. Over the projecting doorway was a room which went by the name of the ‘Oratory,’ probably on account of its large projecting bay window, which gave it somewhat of an ecclesiastical appearance, and from this window a view could be obtained on all sides. The small part of the wing which was left standing was used as storerooms, and access from the outside was gained by a small door, which had been injudiciously opened in the corner, or angle, when the alterations were made.

Mr Leggett possessed a large quantity of very fine old massive silver-plate, which was placed in one of the storerooms, strongly secured and locked, in the remains of the wing referred to. It was supposed that he had also a considerable sum of money locked up with the plate, as banking was not so common in remote country-places in those days.

Now it happened that, on the 23d of April 1801, Mr Leggett and his two sons had to attend a neighbouring cattle fair, and had proposed to sleep in the town, instead of returning home the same night; but, a good customer having arranged to complete a purchase early the next morning, Mr Leggett’s eldest son, George, came back to Chatford very late and went quietly to bed; but the worry of the fair, and anxiety about to-morrow’s purchase, prevented him sleeping. His bedroom was at the end of the house, close to the store wing, and just above the little door in the angle already mentioned. Whilst restlessly tossing about from side to side, young Leggett heard the house clock strike two, and just after became aware of a peculiar grating noise, apparently under his window. To jump up and cautiously and silently open the casement was the work of a minute. It was a cloudy moonlight night, just light enough to show objects imperfectly, but enough for George Leggett to observe the figures of two men close to the little door in the angle immediately below, on which they were apparently operating with some cutting tool, which had produced the grating noise he had heard. George, who was a young man of great intelligence, quick judgment, and ready resource, instantly comprehending the situation, took his measures accordingly. He happened to be a member of the county yeomanry cavalry; and catching up his carabine and some ball cartridges, he silently left his room, and proceeding down the corridor—loading his carabine as he went along—soon reached the ‘Oratory’ room over the porch, whence he could see straight down on to the little door, which was then right in front of him. Silently opening the casement, he made a careful survey of the position, which a passing ray of moonlight enabled him to take in at a glance.

At the little white-painted door were the two men, whose dark figures were well thrown up by so light a background. One was stooping or kneeling, and the other was standing close behind him, their backs, of course, being turned towards their observer. Putting his carabine on full-cock and laying it carefully on the window-sill, after a deliberate aim, Leggett pressed the trigger. A loud shriek and a stifled cry followed, then all was still. Leggett stood intently watching the spot for several moments; but profound silence prevailed—not a sound was heard, not a movement was perceptible. The only other man in the house was the groom, who was quickly roused; and lanterns having been procured, he and Leggett repaired to the spot, and were not a little staggered to find both burglars lying dead. The hand of one of them still grasped a very large steel centre-bit, with which he had been operating on the door. Subsequent surgical investigation showed that the bullet had struck the back of the first man, passing through his heart, and had then entered the head of the man who was stooping or kneeling in front of him, just behind the ear, lodging in the brain. The bodies were at once removed in-doors; and at the inquest, held the next day, the following particulars were elicited:

By the side of the dead men was found a leather travelling portmanteau, containing a highly finished and elaborate set of housebreaking tools, together with a piece of candle and a preparation of phosphorus for obtaining a light, as it is needless to say that lucifer matches were unknown in 1801, their place being supplied by the old-fashioned flint and steel and tinder-box, articles not available for burglars’ use. Each man was armed with a brace of pocket pistols, loaded and primed; and one of them carried a formidable-looking dagger, fitted into the breast of his coat; clearly showing that these ruffians were prepared to offer a desperate resistance, if interrupted or molested. They were both well dressed, and had quite the appearance of gentlemen. Each possessed a good watch and seals, and carried a well-filled purse. One only had a pocket-book, containing many papers, chiefly relating to money matters and betting transactions; but only one letter, which, however, proved of immense importance in throwing light on the lives and characters of the deceased burglars, and in telling the story of the attempted robbery. The letter was directed to ‘Mr John Bellamy,’ at an address in Shoreditch, London, and was dated from Roxburn, the name of a large neighbouring farm, and bore the initials ‘J. P.,’ which, with the writing, were at once recognised at the inquest as those of ‘James Palmer,’ the managing bailiff at Roxburn Farm, a clever and unscrupulous fellow, without any regard for truth or principle, well known in those parts, but a man whom nobody liked and everybody distrusted. This communication was in these few but significant words: ‘The 23d will do best; coast clear, no fear, all straight.—J. P.’

This letter, with the tools and a full report of the whole case, was at once sent to Bow Street, London, and an investigation made by the ‘Bow Street runners’—the detectives of those days—for there were then no regular ‘police,’ as we now understand the term. On searching the premises in Shoreditch, indicated in the letter, where John Bellamy lived, it was discovered that the supposed John Bellamy was no other than ‘Jack Rolfe,’ one of the most successful professional burglars of that day; and the authorities hesitated not to express their satisfaction that his career had been so cleverly cut short.

An immense quantity of stolen property, of almost every description, was found at Rolfe’s lodgings in Shoreditch; and what was more important—as regards the present narrative at least—a correspondence extending over three or four years between Mr James Palmer of Roxburn Farm and the arch-burglar John Bellamy, alias Jack Rolfe himself, by which it appeared that this robbery had been planned and arranged by Palmer, who had supplied Rolfe with the fullest information as to Mr Leggett’s plate and money, as well as a neatly drawn plan of the premises, which was found amongst the papers. Palmer had also arranged the date of the robbery for the 23d of April, as he had discovered that Mr Leggett and his two sons intended to sleep out that night. Nor was this all; for only a few weeks previously, the rascal had had the effrontery to invite Rolfe to pay him a visit at Roxburn, under colour of his being a personal friend, which invitation Rolfe had readily accepted; and one of the witnesses at the inquest well remembered his coming, and at once recognised him in one of the dead men—he of the centre-bit. Rolfe was described as a quiet, pleasant, and rather gentlemanly man.

Not far from Mr Leggett’s gate, a light cart and pony were found tethered early in the morning of the attempted robbery. The cart had been hired from a neighbouring market-town to convey the thieves to the scene of operations, and to bring them back with—as they fondly anticipated—a sackful of rich plunder. They had been staying a day or two at this inn as commercial travellers, calling themselves brothers, and giving the name of Sutton.

On the evidence afforded by the correspondence found in Shoreditch, Palmer was apprehended; and further investigation brought out the fact that the notorious Jack Rolfe was not only his friend, correspondent, and accomplice, but his own brother also, Rolfe being merely an ‘alias’ for his real name of Palmer. The two men were very much alike both in face and figure; and it came out in evidence that they belonged to a family of burglars and sharpers. One brother had been transported for life for robbery and violence; another was then in prison for fraud and theft; James had just been apprehended; and John had been shot dead whilst plying his trade. James appeared to have been the only member who had held a respectable position—that of manager of Roxburn Farm, and he could not keep away from dishonest practices. It was also further discovered that Palmer had been an accomplice in two or three mysterious burglaries which had been perpetrated in the neighbourhood during the two or three previous years, in which the thieves had displayed an accurate knowledge—even to minute details—of the premises attacked, the habits of the inmates, and the drawers or closets where valuables were kept. All this was due to the planning and arranging of the brother James, who could at his leisure quietly take his measures on the spot; which were then carefully communicated to his brother John, who ultimately became the willing executant. Palmer was shortly after brought to trial, convicted, and sentenced to fourteen years’ transportation.

The verdict of the coroner’s jury was ‘justifiable homicide;’ for in those days of desperate and well-armed burglars, the shooting of one or two of these gentry, whilst in the act of plying their nefarious calling, was considered not only a clever but a meritorious action.