“The day you marry, the day you die,
the day you marry, the day you die,” sang the train wheels to John Lennox as
the Thames train steamed and whistled its way to Paeroa in August 1902. Short,
but well built, the dapper young
man sported cropped hair, a dark
moustache that gave him an almost foreign appearance, ready-made but well
fitting dark clothes, neat india rubber shoes and a straw hat. He also wore a white stand-up collar and
black tie. Nothing unusual apart from
the pale, untanned skin perhaps, but no-one took notice as the cars gently
creaked behind the engine, steam and smoke streaming back towards Thames.
Michael Whelan knew John Lennox but had
not recognised him the night before. As
the hotels emptied, Whelan, aged 25, a coach wagon driver who usually lived in
Karangahake, made his way to his mother’s house at the back of the telegraph
office in Kirkwood Street, Thames.
The
turn of the century night echoed with footsteps, voices and laughter backlit by
windows fitful with candles and kerosene lamps. Michael Whelan reached his
mother’s door and raised his hand to knock. There was no light at all in
Kirkwood Street. The person who slowly
approached him from the back of the house uttered not one word.
“Hallo Earnie old chap are you getting home?
Have you been on the drink old chap?” asked Michael Whelan before jumping off
the vernadah and playfully wrapping his arms round the person. “I thought he was having a lark with me,”
Michael said later after the pull of a trigger scored a bullet’s path across
the side of his head.
“The affair wrapped in mystery. A silent would-be murderer,” the Thames Star would shout the next day.
Detective Miller, with elementary tools
of trade and gut instinct, labouring under a cloud covered night, examined the
scene, traced the marks of blood and looked carefully at the spot where the
scuffle occurred.
At 7 the following
morning an overnight boarder at the Warwick Arms Hotel, Shortland, who had
declined breakfast saying he had too much to drink the previous night and who
had since left for Paeroa by train on a single first class ticket, slid into
Detective Millers suspicious view.
There was little time to spare, the boat
left for Auckland that afternoon. He
wired Paeroa, the reply was unsatisfactory, so he hired a buggy and made rapid
progress by changing horses at Hikutaia.
One hour and 50 minutes later he was there and on the telephone to the
shipping company’s office asking for a five minute delay of the departure of
the steamer, Taniwha.
Within moments he
was on the wharf and aboard the boat.
The deck passengers were closely scrutinised but his quarry was not
there. The saloon, upholstered in red
velvet, panelled in polished kauri with cedar sideboards, was searched
unsuccessfully. It was in the smoking
room he discovered John Lennox lying down on the lounge with his face turned to
the wall.
Detective Miller, finding the
answers incriminating, arrested not ‘John Lennox’ but 38 year old Mrs Myra
Taylor for the attempted murder of Michael Whelan. “Dressed in male attire,” the scandalised
headlines would gasp.
On the deck of the Taniwha Myra Taylor
made a sudden move and Detective Miller feared she was reaching for the
revolver, but a bottle of laudanum, three parts filled, fell harmlessly to the
deck. The cork came out and its contents
spilled.
At Paeroa police station a
search of her portmanteau revealed a change of male clothes, a brown bowler ‘Dr
Jim’ hat and, secreted in her pockets skin and hair pigments. The revolver and a box of cartridges were on
their way to Auckland hidden under the cushions of the Taniwha’s smoking
saloon.
Myra Taylor, former manageress
of a boarding house and refreshment rooms at Grahamstown which she ran with her
husband, was brought back to Thames by buggy and lodged in the local goal. She said “I was mad to do such a thing, I
think it must have gone off itself. I
did not know it had touched him till I saw the blood.” She was in a state of high nervous tension
and still wearing male attire. She had
had nothing to eat for three days.
Solicitous Sergeant Clarke and his wife persuaded her to have some food,
but she took very little.
Her husband
had deserted her, sailing for England about a month before, taking with him one
of two daughters. The youngest daughter
had been left with Myra in Auckland.
Detective Miller was praised for the
clever manner in which the accused was traced, her identity ascertained and her
arrest effected.
Michael Whelan was
married that afternoon, although he was suffering some pain. It was thought at first the ceremony would
be postponed, but he was determined to “see the thing” through. Miss Maggie
Potts married him for better. Or worse.
“The Thames sensation . . . Accused appears in female
attire,” the headlines cried.
A large crowd trying to catch a glimpse
of Myra Taylor gathered at the Thames Police Court. She wore a black skirt, tartan blouse and
high white collar with a white bow. Her
hair was cropped very close under a gem straw hat. She sat with head bowed, one hand hiding her
face, trembling, mute. The clatter of carriages and clop of hooves outside
faded as the drama unfolded within.
Myra
was charged with attempting to murder a man with whom she had been carrying on
immoral intercourse for many years.
Michael Whelan had told her he was going to be married and she told him
he would be sorry for it if he did.
“Strange and romantic episodes,” promised the Thames Star.
“I was not fond of her. The affection was all on one side –
hers. I frequently resented her affections. I told her dozens of times I had had enough
of her,” Michael Whelan, head bandaged, said.
For five and half years it had been going on, at Grahamstown, Thames. Myra was married and had one child aged about
8 ½ when he first met her. Other children
were born during the time he knew her, two of which were spirited away, put out
to nurse in Auckland. They were never in
Mr Taylor’s house.
During his evidence a
court window was lifted with a bang and Whelan shot round as though he was
expecting another attack, causing considerable laughter.
He denied writing to Myra in Auckland or
calling her “my darling”, asking her to come to Karangahake or signing letters “lovingly.” They had not corresponded for 18 months.
He used to visit her in Thames because if “I
didn’t see her she would have been down the street after me.” “Because you are so fascinating Mr Whelan,”
said Mr Clendon, wryly, during cross examination.
“We parted bad friends. I said I was about to be married and that I
did not want her to be running about after me.
I also said that I intended to settle down. She said ‘All right my boy. The day you marry the day you die.’”
Myra cried out hysterically – “Oh how can you
tell such lies. It is a wonder God does
not strike you dead.” Tears were
frequent as she upbraided Whelan in court.
“Erring woman:
Mean Man,” decided the Southland Times.
Myra pleaded not guilty at the Supreme
Court in Auckland, miles from the Grahamstown boarding house. Michael at last admitted improper intimacy
over a considerable period, the last occasion being July in Karangahake, a
month before the shooting and a month before his wedding.
He did not know if he was the father of
Myra’s children. “A foolish reply,” thundered His Honour. The Defence argued “Whelan
was a man whom she loved for whom she had lost home and children and
husband. She was in his arms, her head
was on his shoulder, and the facts are consistent with her intention to shoot
herself and not him.”
In his summing up Justice Conolly said “She had not only
been deserted by this man with whom she had been carrying on immoral conduct,
but also by her own husband but the evidence is inconsistent with a suicide
attempt . . .Juries must not have sympathies but decide on evidence.”
The jury
were not long in finding a verdict of ‘Not Guilty.’ And Myra Taylor, head bowed, hand shading her
face, all but disappeared and the excited clattering presses stopped printing
her name.
The wheels, like those of justice,
turned then suddenly skidded precipitating wagon, passengers and horses 18 feet
over the Snake Hill embankment, between Waihi and Waikino. It was three years on and he left a widow and
three young children. Michael Whelan was
found with one of his team of horses standing on him.
************************************************************************************************************
Source
National Library, Papers
Past
Originally published for
2012 Memoir and Local History Competition.
1,500 word limit
http://tauranga.kete.net.nz/en/new_zealand_society_of_authors_bay_of_plenty/topics/show/1386-the-thames-sensation-by-meghan-hawkes
© Meghan Hawkes 2019
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