Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

This curious little melodrama was reported in the “Los Angeles Herald,” September 11, 1909:

PARIS, Sept. 10--A strange lost child is perplexing the Paris police. An American mother is claiming the girl as her daughter, but the latter disclaims her mother. The girl is 6 years old, but talks with astonishing volubility. She happened to call on a policeman voluntarily one day, but as she could not speak any apparently known language, he took her to the police station, where all the experts and interpreters at first failed to understand what the girl wanted.

Finally it turned out that she spoke some sort of Armenian dialect, and an interpreter was found. The child said she had been taken away from her grandmother's home in Syria by a strange woman, who wanted to take her to America, and who, in fact, brought her as far as Paris. The little girl said she had taken the first opportunity to run away from the woman. The police were astonished at the fluency with which the girl talked, and were about to send her temporarily to a home when the strange woman of whom she had spoken appeared and said the child was her daughter. "I am not your daughter," retorted the little one.

"I know my mother. She is very different from this person." The police were seriously embarrassed. They put off the inquiry for the day to obtain a second interpreter, for the mother, or alleged mother, herself speaks a strange mixture of English and French.

As soon as the two were again confronted with each other the precocious child threw up her hands and looked at the young woman in horror. "She is not my mother," she exclaimed.

The woman said she was born in Marseilles, but went to New York when very young. She married an Italian in New York when she was 14 years old and had this child. Her husband died the day the child was born. She kept the baby for one year, then sent her to be taken care of by the child's grandfather in Syria. Having heard that the grandfather had died, she went to Syria to secure the child.

On the way the little girl showed a vicious temper and did all the mischief she could. On reaching the Lyons railway station in Paris she sat down in the waiting room and fell asleep. During that time, she alleges, the child took the bag in which she had all her money, amounting to some $600, and gave it to some strange woman, who disappeared. When she woke she slapped the child, who then ran away into the street, and did not know what had become of her child until she saw her picture in the papers.

The child, who does not understand a word of her mother's language, was then told what she had said, and denied it all. For a whole hour the little one contradicted it in every detail.

She insisted the woman was not her mother. Until three weeks ago she had never seen the woman. It is not true her grandfather is dead. She knew her real mother very well, for she left Syria only a year ago, and was married again in a town not far from Jerusalem. She added: 

"This woman came one day to my grandfather's house when I was alone. She told me my grandfather was waiting for me in the train.

“I got in and he was not there. The train started away, and I cried, and wanted to go back. Then the woman beat me, and the train went on. At Beyrouth she took me on board a big steamer and we went to Port Said, Alexandria, and Marseilles.

“As soon as we got to Paris I took the first chance and ran away from her. I do not want to be with the woman any more. She has beaten me and made me suffer. I want to go back to grandpapa. She says my name is Annette.

It is not true. I am called Marianne." 

After this both the alleged mother and the child had a fit of crying, and between the two contradictory statements the police are unable to make out the truth. Curiously enough, however, the child is wonderfully like the woman who claims to be her mother.

Although the story above was published in a number of newspapers in both Europe and America, I was unable to learn how the mystery of the child’s true identity was resolved.

[Note: @JimChaffeeEM on Twitter found this story from the New York Sun, which states that this woman apparently "bought" the child for use as a servant!]

The Two Disappearances of Frederick Brosseau

Kennewick Courier, September 5, 1913, via Newspapers.com

Whenever children unaccountably disappeared in the 19th and early 20th centuries, it was common for people to instantly suspect they were kidnapped by "gypsies." These suppositions were generally proven false, to the extent that stories about such alleged abductions are now thought of as vintage "urban myths."

However, on at least one occasion, this conjecture was apparently proven to be correct. And the case only got weirder from there.

Our story opens on October 21, 1896, in the small northern New York town of Sissonville. At around six p.m., a seven-year-old boy named Frederick Brosseau was seen playing on a bridge near the lumber mill where his father John Brosseau worked. The boy often waited there in the evenings to meet his dad and walk home with him. That was the last time anyone saw Frederick. Almost immediately, the entire community turned out to look for the child. The mill was shut down and carefully examined. The local river was dragged and the surrounding countryside diligently searched. Not a trace of little Frederick could be found anywhere. The frustrated townspeople could only assume that the boy had drowned, and his body had become lodged on the river bottom.

The years passed by, with the tragic mystery becoming nearly forgotten by everyone except the Brosseau family. Then, in August 1913, the puzzle of Frederick's disappearance appeared to be resolved, and in an entirely startling way. On a boat traveling along the Ottawa River, a young man approached one of his fellow passengers, a Catholic priest. He explained that many years before, when he was a small child, he had been abducted by gypsies, who had treated him with great brutality. He stated that the gypsy caravan had taken him through a number of foreign countries, as they spent each winter abroad. Worse still, the gypsies had stolen a number of other children. The boys were used as virtual slaves, and the girls were sold for large amounts of cash. He had just now managed to escape from his captors. The caravan was still in Canada, with one kidnapped child, a girl, still in their possession. All the youth could remember about himself was that although the gypsies insisted on calling him "Patrick," he knew his real name was Frederick, and he had come from someplace in northern New York. The priest, convinced the young man was telling the truth, brought him to a Trappist monastery in Oka, a village in Quebec.

In an effort to discover the stranger's true identity, the little information he was able to provide about himself was broadcast in the local news media, along with his photo. The monks contacted a Father Marron, who lived in northern New York. Perhaps he would have some clues suggesting who the young man really was. By a remarkable coincidence, one Kate Perry, a sister of Frederick Brosseau's mother, lived in Montreal, and saw the newspaper articles about the mystery man. She was intrigued enough to visit the Oka monastery, carrying with her a photograph of Frederick taken shortly before he disappeared. When she compared the photo to the as-yet-unidentified young man, she became convinced he was her long-missing nephew. She immediately shared her astonishing news with the Brosseaus. Mr. and Mrs. Brosseau, along with one of their other sons, Frank, and Father Marron, immediately headed for Oka. Upon their arrival, the parents immediately recognized the stranger as their son. It was established that the young man had the same distinctive birthmark on his arm that Frederick had had. Plus, he so resembled Frank Brosseau that the two could have passed as twins.

The Canadian police immediately went in search of this caravan of kidnappers. The authorities were forced to instruct the newly-discovered Frederick Brosseau to remain on the monastery grounds, as he would be a crucial material witness when the gypsies were caught and put on trial. His parents had no choice but to return home without their long-lost son, but at least they now had the assurance that before long, they would be reunited for good.

Mr. and Mrs. Brosseau, and the man who claimed to be their son Frederick. Pittsburgh Press, September 21, 1913.

Unfortunately, a new danger soon emerged. The widespread publicity given to the return of the long-missing boy ensured that his former captors also learned where he was. It was reported that the gypsies made a number of attempts to steal the young man from the monastery, but the monks managed to foil all their evil plans.

Or so they initially thought. Just days after his joyful meeting with his family, the newly-identified Frederick Brosseau vanished from sight once more. On August 22, 1913, he was seen in the monastery's courtyard, talking to a stranger. Frederick seemed worried and upset. A few minutes later, he was gone.

What had happened? It was presumed that the gypsies had somehow threatened or coerced him into returning to their custody, but no one could say for certain why the young man made a second disappearance. Soon after "Frederick" vanished from the monastery, someone matching his description was seen boarding a train from New York, in the company of a woman claiming to be his mother. Was this the missing man? No one could say.

Was this enigmatic youth even the real Frederick? The Montreal Chief of Police for one, was skeptical. He had information suggesting that the mysterious young man had, in reality, one "Patrick Saileure," a barber who had been living in Montreal for years. The Police Chief was convinced the man identified as Frederick was either delusional or a sick practical joker.

Who really was this man? Why did he vanish so suddenly and oddly? Was any of his bizarre story true? And if he was an impostor, what happened to the real Brosseau boy?

We'll never know the answers to any of those questions. Because this time, Frederick Brosseau never did come back.

The Cat Trial of the Century

On this blog, I have covered several cases revolving around disputed identity: is person “X” really person “Y”, or aren’t they? I have a great fondness for such stories, as they can make some of the most fascinating riddles.

So, you can imagine how pleased I was to come across one famed court case where the center of the mystery was a cat. And when I learned the feline in question bore the glorious name of “Marmaduke Gingerbits,” I knew I had been blessed by the Blogger Gods.

The tale of this four-legged Martin Guerre began in Woodford Bridge, Essex, in August of 1983. Marmaduke was the beloved pet of PC John Sewell and his wife Anna.

When the Sewells went away for vacation, they left Marmaduke in the care of a friend. On their return, they were met with the worst news a pet owner can receive: soon after they left, the cat disappeared!

Immediately after Marmaduke vanished, a large, handsome ginger cat began visiting Doreen Smythe, one of Sewell’s neighbors. One evening, she saw another neighbor, Monty Cohen, trying to catch the cat. He told Mrs. Smythe that he thought it was his missing pet, Sonny. Although she noticed that the animal displayed a curious aversion to Cohen, Smythe allowed him to take the cat. Or try to, at any rate. “The cat wouldn’t go near him,” she later testified. “He crouched and was spitting and laid on the floor, all hunched up.”

Soon after this, she noticed a flier in a shop window offering a reward for Marmaduke’s return. It included a photo of the fugitive. Mrs. Smythe saw that he was a dead ringer for Mr. Cohen’s “Sonny.” She immediately contacted the Sewells.

When the couple went to Cohen’s house, they noted that the neighbor was “hostile,” but Cohen reluctantly showed them the cat. “The cat immediately turned his head and we knew at that moment that it was our animal,” said Sewell. “He was struggling to get free and get away from Cohen towards myself and my wife.”

Despite this, Cohen refused to hand over the cat. Sewell and his wife got hold of the cat’s front legs, but Cohen stubbornly refused to let go of the rest of the animal. The constable whipped out his warrant card, showing that it was now a matter for Her Majesty’s law enforcement. A friend of Cohen’s, who said he was a black belt in karate, responded by throwing kicks and punches. Cohen and Sewell began pounding each other. The constable called for backup and put Cohen in an armlock.

It was war.

Sewell promptly had Cohen arrested on charges of cat-napping and assault, and the case of Sewell vs. Cohen--quickly dubbed by the British press as “The Cat Trial of the Century” and "The Love-Tug"--was heard in Snaresbrook Crown Court in February 1984.

The Guardian, June 15, 1984, via Newspapers.com

Judge G.N. Worthington opened the proceedings by ordering that the disputed cat be shown to the jury. “What is his name,” he asked.

“Marmaduke Gingerbits, Your Honor,” Sewell replied.

“Marmaduke, who?” Worthington said bemusedly. He eyed certain areas of the cat’s anatomy. “Where are the ginger bits?”

Sewell struggled to answer the question in a manner befitting the dignity of a British courtroom. “Unfortunately, he was christened before he had his operation…”

Cohen continued to insist that Exhibit A was his “Sonny.” Sewell pointed out that Marmaduke has a distinct mark on his right eyelid that was identical to the cat now in court. Marmaduke’s vet gave testimony, agreeing that the cat was “very likely” to be the same one he had treated. Photographs of Marmaduke were introduced into evidence, and compared carefully to the Claimant.

The jury found Cohen guilty of assault, but punted on the matter of the cat. Judge Worthington decided that his court had no jurisdiction to decide whether the Claimant was Marmaduke or Sonny. Ever since Cohen’s arrest, the center of the dispute had been kept in neutral territory--a local cattery--and the Judge expressed concern at the escalating public cost of keeping the cat in custody. It had already amounted to three hundred pounds. Cohen’s counsel immediately asked for the cat to be given to his client. He pointed out that when police officers arrived at Cohen’s house, they learned that his rival was a policeman. “From start to finish Mr. Sewell, working with other police officers, was on the inside rail, so to speak...There was no proper consideration of Mr. Cohen’s account.”

“I am not going to deal with the question of access to a cat,” the judge sighed.

The Guardian, February 28, 1984

Both sides were determined to fight on. In early March 1984, in the presence of cameras from both the BBC and ITV--the issue of this cat’s identity had by now become a nationwide cause célèbre--Cohen and the Sewells went to Redbridge Magistrates Court, each side applying for custody of the cat. A date was set for later that month, but when the magistrates heard that the Sewells had already started proceedings in the County Court, the case was dismissed.

The issue of the cat’s ownership had become a complicated legal puzzle. The Sewells had adjourned the civil case pending the outcome of the criminal proceedings against Cohen, because, no matter what the civil court decided, the cat would have to remain with a third party until the criminal trial was over. If Cohen had been convicted of theft, the cat would be automatically given to the Sewells, making the civil case unnecessary. In the meantime, Cohen went to the Police Complaints Board, alleging that when he was arrested, police officers “mishandled” him. He announced that he would file an injunction if the Sewells were allowed access to “his” cat. (Cohen accused Sewell of paying secret visits to the feline and giving him biscuits to win his affections.) Cohen would have also liked to take civil action against the enemy camp, but he could not do so on legal aid, and, being unemployed, could not afford the costs himself.

Finally, in June 1984--after months of the UK holding its collective breath over the true identity of this mystery cat--these two (in the words of Philadelphia Inquirer reporter Jane Shoemaker) “otherwise sane and normal men” appeared in Bow Street Courthouse to learn which of them would have the honor of residing with the UK’s most controversial cat. Marmaduke/Sonny was present as well, reclining in a cage on a “fur-flattering” white blanket, and no doubt thinking uncomplimentary thoughts about human intelligence.

Marmaduke’s vet made another appearance, giving the vital testimony that Sewell’s cat was not allowed to drink milk. It disagreed with him.

The pivotal question: ”Did the cat present in the courtroom drink milk?”

A tense silence fell over the packed courtroom. They knew the cat’s destiny rested on the answer.

His current custodians testified that he did, but it gave him indigestion.

Game over. Registrar John Platt awarded the cat--now legally established as “Marmaduke”--to the Sewells. He stated that the Sewells produced sufficient evidence to show this was their cat. He believed that there truly had been a ginger cat named “Sonny,” and that Cohen genuinely, but erroneously, believed this was his lost pet. An honest mistake rather than sinister catnapping. He also ruled that Sewell had trespassed on Cohen’s home, and that he had had no right to put an armlock on Cohen when they had tussled over the cat. He ordered the Sewells to pay Cohen fifty pounds for the assault and trespass, and two hundred pounds of his costs. In return, Cohen was ordered to pay 80 per cent of the Sewells’ court costs. (In a separate matter, Cohen was also fined for puncturing the tires on four police cars.) The hearing was estimated to have cost over a thousand pounds, in addition to the five thousand pounds for the Snaresbrook hearing. This was, of course, not counting the expenses of keeping Marmaduke in custody as a material witness for months.

This hitherto humble ginger had become the costliest cat in Great Britain.

The Guardian, June 15, 1984

Marmaduke and the Sewells had a tearful reunion in the courtroom, covered in loving detail on BBC radio. As for Cohen, he too cried, but in sorrow, not joy. He fled the court, too upset to even speak to reporters. The Sewells left without comment, as well. A tabloid had bought their life story, and their contract barred them from speaking to anyone else.

I believe the court made the right decision. This cat who, in the manner of Helen of Troy, launched a thousand lawsuits, almost certainly did indeed belong to the Sewells.

However, I also have sympathy for Mr. Cohen. He would not have gone through this long legal hell if he had not been sincerely convinced this was his cat. So we are left with one mystery that, I fear, is fated to go unsolved: Where, oh, where, is his Sonny?

#OnThisDay 1984: The trial of the century reached its thrilling conclusion: Who was the real owner of Marmaduke Gingerbits the cat? pic.twitter.com/OznZLDFcQ0

— BBC Archive (@BBCArchive) June 14, 2019

Rickety Dan and Crazy Jack: A Problem of Identity

via Newspapers.com

Like all conflicts, the chaos of the American Civil War left a number of unsolved mysteries in its wake. Few, however, were as peculiar as one confusing case of unknown identity. Today, DNA testing would have quickly resolved the issue, but at the time, it was fated to remain an unanswerable question.

William Newby, the man at the center of the puzzle, was born in Tennessee around 1825, but his family moved to Illinois when he was a small child. Newby's life was totally unremarkable until 1861, when he enlisted in the Union Army.

The secondary star of our show was an unfortunate Tennessean named Daniel Benton. Soon after his birth in 1845, he developed rickets. The disease so affected his legs that he was unable to walk without wobbling, which earned him the nickname of "Rickety Dan." As an adult, he was unable to hold down a normal job. He became a vagrant, traveling from town to town until he was sent to prison for stealing horses, where he remained until he managed to escape custody.

In 1862, Newby was shot in the head at the battle of Shiloh. Although he survived the initial injury, he was obviously gravely, even possibly mortally wounded. His comrades were forced to leave him on the field. Two days later, burial details arrived on the scene. There were conflicting reports about whether or not Newby's body was found and buried, but in any case he was listed as having been killed in action. Nothing more was heard from him until 1891, when memories of Newby were revived in the most startling fashion: a man turned up in his old Illinois hometown, claiming to be none other than the "long-dead" soldier. According to Newby--or was it "Newby?"--after Shiloh, he was captured by the enemy and sent to the infamous Andersonville prison, where he remained for the rest of the war. At Andersonville, he endured terrible privations and witnessed even more horrific sufferings, such as when a fellow captive amputated his own gangrened legs. Newby's head wound caused such a severe loss of memory that he did not even know his own name. At Andersonville, he was known only as "Crazy Jack."

After the war ended, the amnesiac, broken in both body and mind, spent years wandering aimlessly through the South. He eventually wound up in Illinois, where he was recognized by Newby's brother. This relation brought him back to his old home, where Newby's surviving family members--including Newby's mother, wife, sister, and children--instantly accepted him as William.

A happy ending? On this blog? Oh, come now. In 1893, the newly-resurrected Newby ran into trouble when he applied for his army pension, as well as back pay--a sum which, all those years later, amounted to some $20,000 (around $500,000 in 2018 dollars.) The federal government declined his petition, on the grounds that he was not "William Newby" at all! Rather, the feds asserted that he was Daniel "Rickety Dan" Benton. Newby/Benton found himself facing charges of attempted fraud.

The key issue at his trial, of course, was the question of the defendant's identity. This proved to be harder to establish than either side bargained for. Two former Union soldiers testified that after Shiloh, they had given Newby's body a battlefield burial. On the other hand, several other veterans swore that Newby was Andersonville's "Crazy Jack." Other witnesses stated that when Newby was roaming through Tennessee, he was often mistaken for Daniel Benton. On one occasion, he was even arrested as Benton and taken to the prison from which Rickety Dan had escaped. Newby--or whoever he was--remained in custody until 1889. He told the court that after his release, he made his way to a poorhouse in Mount Vernon, Illinois. He made the acquaintance of William Newby's brother, who immediately recognized the amnesiac as his long-lost sibling. Talking to the brother about their shared past helped William to regain old memories of his true identity.

In the end, thirty witnesses claimed that the defendant was Daniel Benton. However, one hundred and forty people swore that he was William Newby. In addition, doctors testified that the man on trial had never had rickets. Unfortunately for "Newby," this seemingly compelling evidence in his favor failed to impress the jury. After deliberating for only 20 minutes, they ruled that this American Tichborne was "Daniel Benton," and found him guilty of attempting to defraud the government. He was sentenced to two years in prison.

"St. Louis Post-Dispatch," July 23, 1893 via Newspapers.com

Virtually everyone agreed that this was a highly unsatisfactory resolution to the riddle. As the "Otago Daily Times" sighed, "There is a strong possibility that he is Daniel Benton; there is a possibility equally as strong that he is William Newby."

The claimant made an unsuccessful request for a new trial. After he served his sentence, Newby/Benton returned to his vagrant ways, a man without either a home or an official identity. He died in Alabama in 1905, and was buried in the local potter's field.

Modern researchers generally believe that the claimant was indeed William Newby, the victim of a blatant miscarriage of justice. Illinois historian Paul Stallings, who studied this strange case for many years, believes the government's pension board, reluctant to pay out such a huge sum of back pay and veterans' benefits, chose to deliberately railroad an innocent man by means of bribed witnesses, a biased judge, and a rigged jury.

Was Stallings correct? Unfortunately, there is no way we will ever know for sure.