When (and if) people think of the British city of Plymouth (my hometown, by the way) they might think of its history. Notable events such as the defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588, the departure of the Mayflower to what became the United States, and so on. They might also think of some of its notable people such as Sir Francis Drake (leader of the fleet that defeated the Armada), Captain Robert Falcon Scott (Scott of the Antarctic). They tend not to notice some of Plymouth’s less luminous (and lawful) characters, largely because we like to pretend they don’t exist.
Britain’s only lawyer to hang for murder.
With that in mind, enter Major Herbert Rowse Armstrong. Retired Army Major, former Member of Parliament for Plymouth, respectable small-town lawyer, embezzler, fraudster, repeat poisoner and one of Britain’s most notorious murderers. His case isn’t especially memorable in itself, bored and bitter husbands poisoning their wives is nothing new in the true crime trade, but only one British lawyer was ever hanged for murder and it happened to be him.
It’s unlikely that Plymouth’s boosters are likely to put this gentleman in the tourist leaflets. In fairness, he’s been dead since 1923 and his crimes were committed on the Welsh border so it’s no great surprise. That said, he was a local lawyer, Plymouth’s Member of Parliament at one time and, ironically, campaigned heavily on behalf of John ‘Babbacombe’ Lee whose failed execution at Exeter Prison gave him the unwelcome nickname of ‘The man they couldn’t hang.’ Armstrong himself, having earned his passage by murdering his wife and the attempted murder of two other people, went from this world to the next without any unfortunate mishap.
Now many wags, seeing that Armstrong was the only British lawyer to be strung up, might well be thinking ‘Well, it’s a pity more lawyers don’t hang, but at least they made a start.’ or some other macabre witticism. Especially if you happen to be from the USA where loathing lawyers runs a close second to hiring them for litigation. There are also those who believe Armstrong was framed and should never have kept his date with the hangman. If you visit the town of Hay-on-Wye, the delightful little border town where Armstrong did his dark and deadly deeds (and famous today for its international literary festival) there are still two distinct bodies of opinion on whether he did them at all. I was there a couple of years ago and feelings can still run high on Hay’s most famous (and infamous) resident.
Armstrong’s legal career began after graduating from Cambridge and his first law practice was in Devon, Newton Abbot to be precise. He was born in Plymouth on May 31, 1869 and his childhood home was in Princess Square. Like much of pre-war Plymouth it now no longer exists. What Adolf Hitler’s bombers couldn’t demolish in wartime mostly fell to the city planners after VE Day, hence the grey, uninteresting concrete jungle making up much of Plymouth city centre. But I digress…
After taking a partnership in a law firm in Hay, Armstrong and his perpetually domineering, querulous wife Katherine moved there and initially all was well. At least until the arrival of a certain Oswald Martin. Martin joined Hay’s other law firm and displayed all the conscientiousness, reliability and work ethic that Armstrong rather conspicuously lacked. With a lawyer available who actually made a decent effort rather than merely enjoying being a big fish in a tiny social pond, locals began deserting Armstrong and hiring Martin instead. Business began to slacken off and profits began to dry up. Armstrong now needed two things: money to cover his debts and some way of removing his troublesome rival. He decided that a little fraud would cover at least a portion of his mounting debts and that a dose or two of arsenic would discreetly resolve the Martin situation.
Domestically, things were increasingly troublesome as well. His wife Katherine, also a native of Devonshire, was a domineering, quarrelsome, hectoring individual who ran the Armstrong home like her personal fiefdom. To Armstrong, who’d achieved the rank of Major and briefly served in World War One (while cleverly managing to avoid actually being under fire except once) she was a pain in the neck. She also had a considerable estate and, if she should just happen to succumb to sudden illness, her husband would be her sole beneficiary.
Armstrong managed to cook the books at his law practice for a while to hide his increasing financial difficulties, but time was running out. Having embezzled money held as a deposit for a local land deal Armstrong couldn’t then complete the sale because the deposit would be asked for. Stalling both the buyer and the vendor on exasperated both of them so much that they decided to abandon the deal and demanded the deposits be returned. Armstrong, who’d long since spent their deposits covering other debts, was faced with his worst nightmare. The gentleman lawyer was about to be uncovered as a crook, possibly facing serious prison time and certainly losing any social status whatsoever. Something had to be done about his debts, his wife, his frauds and his professional rival. And, unwittingly, the local chemist sold the answer in large quantities.
Arsenic, sometimes known as ‘Inheritance powder.’
First to suffer (after Armstrong’s defrauded clients) was his annoying, domineering, cash-rich wife. Katherine’s health began to fluctuate and she went in and out of hospital during 1921 and 1922. She always recovered in hospital, but also always relapsed suspiciously quickly while back under Armstrong’s care. Armstrong, being a keen gardener, always had large amounts of arsenic to hand and, curiously, her repeated illnesses bore all the hallmarks of arsenic poisoning. She died suddenly in 1922 and Armstrong profited, buying him some more time before being publicly outed as a crook in addition to being a second-rate, lazy small-town lawyer.
Next on Armstrong’s hit parade was his professional rival Oswald Martin. Not long after the unfortunate departure of Katherine Armstrong (an event her grieving husband barely grieved over at all even in public) Martin received an anonymous gift of a box of chocolates. Not liking chocolates, he gave them to his wife and his sister also ate a couple. Both Mrs Martin and her sister-in-law fell seriously ill. Then Martin (who’d been acting for the other party in Armstrong’s embezzled land deal and consequently had no fondness for Armstrong) received a sudden invitation to afternoon tea at Armstrong’s home. Armstrong gave him tea and made sure he ate a particular scone which Armstrong handed him (rather than offering the whole plate) with the words ‘Please excuse fingers.’ Not a memorable breach of etiquette, as a rule, but it certainly seemed memorable to Martin when he was suddenly and almost fatally ill. Again, his symptoms bore all the classic signs of arsenic poisoning.
The Martin’s all survived, but spent several months living in Hay (a very small place) with Martin’s office right across the street from Armstrong’s and with their would-be murderer not only making polite conversation on a daily basis but persistently inviting both Martin and his wife for another dose of his highly-dubious afternoon tea. The strain must have been almost intolerable. Bad enough for the Martins that they firmly believed Armstong was trying to kill them. Worse that they had to socialise with their would-be assassin as well.
Martin first alerted the local GP, Doctor Hincks. Hincks had treated Martin and Mrs Armstrong and Martin’s suspicions were matched by his own. They were more than matched when Hincks sent the box of chocolates to a private lab for a toxicology test. Lo and behold, a couple had been hollowed out, their fillings replaced with pure white arsenic and melted chocolate smeared over the holes. Enter Chief Inspector Crutchett of Scotland Yard…
Crutchett and his partner, Detective Sergeant Sharp, were hampered by having to work in secret. As a suspect in his wife’s poisoning (proved when her body was exhumed and tested for arsenic, which it contained in a lethal quantity) and in the attempted murders of three other people, Armstrong was seen as the type who would either attempt escape or suicide if he realised Scotland Yard were on to him. In the end it made no difference. On New Year’s Eve, 1922 they dropped by Armstrong’s office, questioned him and then arrested him for the murder of his wife. And what did they find when they turned out his pockets before taking him away? A small wrap of special pharmacist’s paper in his waistcoat pocket. A wrap of paper containing a lethal dose of arsenic. When they searched his office they also turned out his desk drawers. Another, larger, package of arsenic was found stuffed inside the desk itself.
Armstrong never admitted his guilt at trial, although the combination of a gifted prosecutor, a sarcastically-minded judge and the scientific and circumstantial evidence proved enough. Even hiring legendary defense lawyer Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett, KC (King’s Counsel, being a senior barrister) did Armstrong no good. The jury heard about Armstrong’s frauds, his infidelities, how he longed to be free of his wife and how badly he resented the professional rivalry presented by Oswald Martin and they were convinced. The marathon 12-hour speech by Curtis-Bennett before a three-judge panel at the Court of Criminal Appeal did no good, either, the appellate panel being equally convinced of his guilt. He was fairly tried and fairly convicted, they ruled. And when the Home Secretary (today the Minister of Justice) refused to recommend a reprieve, soon he would be speedily (and fairly) hanged.
Gloucester Prison’s gallows – Armstrong’s last birthday present.
He finally met his end at the hands of chief hangman John Ellis at Gloucester Prison on, with a bitter irony, May 31, 1923 only months after his arrest. The execution passed off without incident and was quick and clean, certainly cleaner than death by arsenic. It was his 53rd birthday.