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| Wing (2nd ed.) / K625A |
When
I first encountered murder in the archives as a graduate student, I was
intrigued by the way seventeenth-century English communities policed themselves
and sought to regain order and find justice after a crime had occurred. I was also fascinated by the accounts of these
crimes which emerged in popular press, and what readers might be able to
reconstruct about the nature of these “bloody acts.”
Take,
for example, the story of The Bloody
Vintner, subtitled Cruelty Rewarded
with Justice, from 1684. This is the
“true account” (note the legitimacy conveyed by the term) of Edward (alias)
Edmund Kirk, a Vintner, who “privately married” a serving maid, and then turned
around and killed her only eight days later. He was sentenced to death, and was duly executed
by hanging within six weeks. (Check out Sam Thomas’ post on a botched execution).
Edward
Kirk’s story got some attention at the time, written up three times in the
popular press in both ballad and broadside forms. While three other men were
executed July 11, 1684 at Tyburn, certainly Edward’s murder of his secret wife
was far more lurid and interesting than the two men who had broken into the
house of the Duke of Ormand, or the man who had stolen a horse. Those men's names are likely recorded in the
sessions records of the Old Bailey, and perhaps their birth, marriage, and
property information could be found in their local church records, but little
else of their stories seems to remain.
What’s
interesting to me is how so much, relatively speaking, is known of Edward Kirk,
while so little is known of Joan Greene, the servant who came to such a pitiful
end. Referred to mainly as “Mrs. Kirk,” what can be pieced together from Joan’s
life are just shadowy glimpses. In his “last
dying speech,” Edward goes on at length about his birth and early years in
Fetcham and Mucklam (both in Surry), his failed attempt to become a watch-maker
like his brother, his desire to enter the vinter’s trade and his subsequent
service at a few taverns, and his ambition to one day keep his own “vitualling
house.”
What
we know of Joan Greene is scant, and all our knowledge has been filtered
through Edward’s moralistic, somewhat chagrined, slightly defensive narrative (which
may be hard to distinguish from the perspective of the penny authors who
“faithfully” recorded his “dying words”). The two met at The Leg Tavern where she worked and he used to go with
friends—“Often going thither I observed this woman, and took the opportunity to
being acquainted with her; my frequent visits having now made me familiar with
her.” That Edward had some amorous
feelings towards her, at least initially, is clear: “I began to feel in myself
a more particular respect and affection for her…she accepted my Love, whereupon
I made her a promise to marry her, which she very soon and willingly embraced.”
Something
changed, however, in their relationship soon after. As Edward tells it, Joan began “haunting” his
place of employment, a tavern called the Miter,
and his employers were not too happy. They allegedly warned him that her
continued presence at their tavern would prove “prejudicial to him” if he did
not forsake her company.
At
this point, the narrative of their relationship takes a tragic turn. In some
seventeenth-century hands, these events would have been written as a merry
farce; here, the events are chronicled written matter-of-factly, and their nondescript quality is all the more poignant if you read between the
lines.
It
seems that Joan then quit her job, and managed to get Edward’s employers to
hire her on as a house servant (but notably, not to work in their tavern). They
lived together there for “three quarters of a year” before she eventually moved
to a merchant’s house in Thames Street. Notably,
they’re still not married at this point. Edward stayed on a year at the Miter before finding work at the Swan. At that point he explains, “I had not been
above three days there [before] she followed me, still urging and pressing me
to marry her as she had done before, so often that I began to grow weary of her
importunities and left that place.” He went to another tavern, where after two
weeks she found him again. And so this pattern went on for a while, until he
seems to have finally given up, and married her.
They
kept the marriage secret, but Edward does not say why. One can only surmise,
though, that he had some immediate regrets, seeing the terrible change of heart
that followed only eight days later: “I called upon her at her Master’s house,
and desired her to go out and walk with me, and when we came to a field near
Paddington I did that bloody act, for which I now deservedly suffer.” As he
explains, “It has been with great trouble and affliction of my soul, that
should be so barbarous and cruel to her… I first gave her a knock with my cane
which beat her back, and falling down I cut her throat with a small knife I had
in my pocket, without giving her the liberty of speaking one word of mercy.”
(That last admission may have surely done him in with a godly jury, and have
been seized upon by the ardent clergy who urged him towards repentance.)
Why
did Edward do it? We can only surmise
from a sole passage. “What was the first chief cause that was the occasion of
my disagreement with my wife, was her humor to follow me from place to place,
and to hinder my associating my self with Lewd and Debauched company.” (She
doesn’t seem to have trusted him, perhaps because he was hanging out with
prostitutes, even though they were engaged.).
This “small spark” became a “flame of dissention,” and as the Devil informed
him, only her “innocent blood” could provide satisfaction.
Regardless,
after some weeks, her body was discovered. Edward seems to have denied knowing
her at first, but as you can imagine that didn’t go to well. We don’t have too many facts here, but the
marriage seems to have come to light fairly quickly. I like to think the
exchange with the local constable went something like this:
Edward:
“I didn’t know this woman.”
Constable:
“Oh really? Weren’t you secretly married to her?”
Edward
shuffles his feet. “Well, okay. Yes. But I didn’t kill her.”
Constable:
“Isn’t that a bloody knife in your pocket there?”
Edward:
“Well, yes, but you can’t prove it.”
Okay,
maybe it wasn’t quite like that. But we do know Edward confessed to the crime,
and was hanged. Just from the evidence,
we’ll never really know what happened, or why. The historian in me sighs over
such tantalizing details, and works to construct a plausible narrative where
none can be found. But the writer in me loves to speculate and fill in the
gaps. Did Joan make one shrewish comment
too many? Was she some sort of deranged stalker? Was Edward a womanizer? Or
just suffering a mental break? This is
exactly the kind of case that inspired my novel, The Murder at Rosamund’s Gate, the story of a young servant trying
to keep her brother from being wrongly executed for another servant’s death…
