true crime – Page 2 – My 52 Weeks With Christie

Crime & Christie: It’s Not Personal, It’s Just Business

November 8, 2024October 10, 2024Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

On July 15, 1919, at 5:50 pm, after three ballots — the jury found Vera Trepagnier guilty of manslaughter and fixed a sentence of one year to life in prison. Paul F. Volland’s second ex-wife, Gladys Couch Volland, and his son, Gordon B. Volland, were both in court when the verdict was announced and applauded (metaphorically) the jury for holding Vera accountable for her actions. Unsurprisingly, State’s Attorney Hoyne lauded the victory of ASA Dwight and the jury’s decision.

So what went wrong? Why did the jury find Vera guilty of manslaughter despite her lawyers following the formula that got 26 other women acquitted?

Vera blamed the loss on another attorney, Frances E. Spooner — the only lawyer she’d found who agreed to fight the unbalanced contract she’d signed with Paul F. Volland in civil court. In an interview given shortly after her conviction, Vera claimed Spooner hamstrung her defense because she “…had all my papers about the case that led up to the killing, and she left town.” Which could be true? The one and only time I found Spooner’s name linked with Vera’s occurred the day after Vera’s bid for a new trial was denied, on August 16, 1919: When the papers reported Spooner was suing her former client for breach of contract, “…by killing Volland, she brought an end to the case and threw the plaintiff out of a job.” (I’ve no clue how this case ultimately panned out.)

However, it’s equally possible Vera’s all-male defense team used Spooner as a convenient scapegoat to cover the collective backsides with their client after their loss. Spooner, one of the rare female attorneys in Chicago during this period, would make an easy target in any post-trial blame game.

Weighing in, over 100 years later, I see the scales of recrimination tipping ever so slightly in the direction of Vera’s cadre of lawyers and their decision to rely solely on Vera’s testimony.

Why? First and foremost, Vera’s account doesn’t quite add up, in my estimation.

While it’s possible Vera’s version of events unfolded exactly as she said……Why would Volland start strangling her for simply refusing to leave his office? Granted, Vera had become a thorn in Volland’s paw. However, until that afternoon, he’d successfully kept her at arm’s length for years through a lack of communication, lawyers, and by using layers of security/secretaries/doormen as a shield. Moreover, if Vera failed to leave Volland’s office because he murdered her (worst case scenario) or she exited under her own power with hand-shaped bruises around her neck, disheveled from a struggle, and gasping — it would’ve been noticed by the office full of people working away in the middle of the day.

Speaking of people, while there weren’t any eyewitnesses other than Vera who saw what happened in Volland’s office, two individuals were close enough to hear some of what was happening inside. Both women spoke of hearing Vera’s voice growing louder and shriller as the interview went on while Volland’s remained low and even. Suggesting it was she, not him, who grew furious as the conversation continued.

Mrs. Gladys Crouch Volland

The defense, in an attempt to shore up Vera’s assertion Volland struck first, claimed Volland was a “wife beater” and “woman-hater” which led to the dissolution of his second marriage. The only problem? Said second wife, Gladys Crouch Volland, still resided in Chicago and was more than willing to testify that her ex-husband never abused her or their daughters, nor was cruelty the reason why she sued for divorce. While it’s possible Gladys was lying, the fact she wasn’t called to the stand or her divorce decree read aloud by the defense — who’d subpoenaed her — suggests they couldn’t scrounge up enough proof that Volland abused his ex-wife to convince the presiding Judge to allow it into evidence. Making it likely that Vera’s attorneys simply spliced the idea into their opening remarks in the hopes that the jury would consider the unsubstantiated claim during their deliberations.

Furthermore, I found an announcement for Volland’s 1904 divorce from Laura Gordon Volland, his first ex-wife. While one of the gossipy articles alluded to money at the root of the marriage’s dissolution, none mentioned cruelty. (And the fact Laura remarried mere days after the finalization of the divorce decree hints at a different set of problems within the union.)

In my humble opinion? Upon realizing Volland wasn’t going to willingly hand back her miniature or write a check for five grand, Vera pulled a revolver on him and that’s when Volland “lept at her” — not the other way around.

This fine — yet important distinction — is why Billy Flynn, in the musical Chicago, worked so hard to make sure the newspapers reported that Roxie Hart and her lover both reached for the gun. If it came out that Roxie pulled the gun on her boyfriend first, in a fit of rage rather than in self-defense, it would’ve negated her claim to the “unwritten law.”

After her arrest, in an effort to invoke said statute for herself, Vera neatly summed up the “unwritten law” as this: “In my State men may lie, gamble, cheat in business, but they do not lay hands on a woman.” As I understand it, this tacit law allowed judges and juries to protect abused women who either snapped or needed to defend themselves at a point in time when domestic violence laws were nearly nonexistent. More importantly, it’s part of the foundation on which the murderess acquittal formula rested — hence why, in my opinion, it’s more than likely Vera swapped up the order of events to save her own skin.

Unfortunately for Vera, her uneven account wasn’t the only problem.

Crime & Christie: Give Them The Old Razzle Dazzle….

November 1, 2024October 10, 2024Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

On May 6, 1919, the day after slaying Paul F. Volland, a Grand Jury charged Vera Trepagnier with his murder. What’s more, the twelve men refused to set bail, thereby sending sixty-year-old Vera off to the Cook County Jail to join the other women awaiting trial on its infamous Murderess Row. Nevertheless — despite the charge, the multiple witnesses placing her in the room when Volland died, handing Patrolman Patrick Durkin the murder weapon, and confessing to the crime — Vera wasn’t without a heaping helping of hope that she’d get away with murder.

Sounds mind-boggling, right? Hope, in the face of an apparent prosecutorial slam dunk.

Lists like this one, printed in 1914, were printed fairly frequently in papers across the country.

However, in the 12 years leading up to Paul F. Volland’s death, Cook County prosecutors only managed to convict 3 out of the 29 women put on trial for murder or manslaughter (according to the tallies routinely published in the papers). Which begs the question: How? Well, in studying Vera’s case, as well as yards and yards of newspaper columns covering the 29 women who preceded Vera into the courtroom (and a number who came after), a familiar refrain kept repeating itself.

And They Both Reached For The Gun

Variants of this line kept creeping up, pinging a distant and dormant earworm in the back of my brain. Unable to recall why it sounded so very, very familiar, I tapped the phrase into a search engine and immediately learned why it resonated.

Did you know the musical Chicago is loosely based on real murders and murderesses? Maurine Dallas Watkins, the play’s original author, based Chicago on two (in)famous criminal cases she covered during her eight-month stint with the Chicago Tribune in 1924. Beulah Annan, who shot her married lover in the back, served as the inspiration for Roxie Hart. Belva Gaertner, the muse for Velma Kelly, claimed to have no memory of shooting her married lover in her car after they’d spent several hours visiting bars, drinking, and listening to jazz. You will be unsurprised to learn both women were acquitted of the crimes.

The musical, created after Watkins’ death in 1969, does a great job of exposing the formula defense lawyers (generally, though not exclusively) followed to obtain acquittals for their female clients.

These were just some of the “glamorous” newspaper photos of the women who were eventually acquitted for murder/manslaughter in Cook County.

Step One: After committing the crime (of course), feed the media. Recall the newspaper headline that started me down this odd and twisting path: “Can A Beauty Be Convicted?” Admittedly, owning youth, good looks, and manners didn’t hurt their cause. However, what this story conveniently ignores (though the musical shows in aces) is the symbiotic relationship enjoyed with many, though not all, of these female killers and the press.

By answering questions shouted at them on the courthouse steps and granting interviews, these women helped improve the paper’s circulation numbers whilst priming potential members of their juries before ever stepping into the courtroom.

Thereby explaining why Vera, who declined to testify before the Grand Jury in her own defense, gave a series of interviews to reporters hours after joining Murderess Row. By laying out her slow spiral into poverty after losing her fortune, home, and husband while making sure to mention her altruistic plans for the $5,000 and/or the painting, Vera noticeably softened the tone of the subsequent coverage.

More importantly, by concentrating on her life story and the lopsided deal she unwittingly struck, Vera could obliquely portray Paul F. Volland as a rich man willing to use his power and position to swindle an older, desperate woman out of the last remaining vestige of her salad days without rousing other influential Chicagoans into defending the dead man’s memory — which would prove catastrophic for Vera’s defense.

Speaking of Vera’s story, sifting through Vera’s interviews and testimony, the bare bones of her version of events goes like this: After Paul F. Volland closed his office doors, she reiterated her demand for either $5,000 or the Trumbull miniature.

Volland’s response: “I’m tired of looking at you and of listening to you. I haven’t got anymore time to waste. Now, will you get out?”

Unaccustomed to such rudeness but unwilling to leave without at least one of her requests being met, Vera stood her ground. Whereupon, according to Vera, “…{Paul F. Volland} leaped at me. I felt his fingers touching at my throat. He pushed me towards the door. I could stand it no longer. I opened my purse, grasped the pistol and pointed it at him. He leaped at me again and I fired. He dropped in a heap at my feet, gasping: ‘I am shot, I am shot.’ That is all I remember.”

With the potential jury pool now prepped to think Volland attacked first and his death a mere accident, it’s time to cue the next essential element of an acquittal…

Some of the other players in Vera’s trial.

Step Two: Razzle-dazzle them, or in other words, create a spectacle evocative enough to bamboozle the 12 men of the jury into finding reasonable doubt, whether it’s there or not. This was usually accomplished through effusive weeping, fainting bouts, and statements of abject regret, remorse, and sorrow by the accused in court.

However, these over-the-top demonstrations of contrition didn’t really suit Vera’s case. Seems prior to sinking their teeth into Vera’s tales of woe, the papers reported on her absolutely serene demeanor at the crime scene. According to their words, Vera showed no signs of distress over what she’d done — no shaking hands or voice, no apologies, no tears. In point of fact (and I’m not sure how accurate this is), the papers made it sound as if Vera stepped over Volland as he lay dying on the floor in order to peer out his office windows while waiting for the police.

With standard razzmatazz measures rendered useless, Vera’s lawyers turned to plan B — during her six straight hours on the stand (the only person her defense team called to testify), Vera dramatically reenacted her and Volland’s struggle over the gun. The exhibition highlighted the physical disparity between 44-year-old Paul F. Volland and 60-year-old Vera while attempting to refute the prosecution’s expert witness, who declared it impossible for Vera’s revolver to accidentally discharge in the way Vera claimed. “My {Vera’s} finger was on the trigger. His hand closed over mine, pressed my finger and exploded the weapon. He really shot himself.”

The theatrics didn’t end there.

Endeavoring to bolster Vera’s claim: That Volland attacked first and without provocation thus rendering Vera’s actions understandable. In his opening remarks, Leo Lebosky (one of Vera’s lawyers) attacked Volland’s reputation. Calling Volland a “woman-hater” and “woman-beater” — then claimed Volland’s second ex-wife sought a divorce on the grounds of cruelty. These remarks instantly provoked Assistant State’s Attorney Dwight to raise strenuous objections and Judge Brentano to remind Lebosky that claims along these lines would not be admitted into evidence. This led Lebosky to confidently counter, “…it would be.” (They weren’t, btw.)

In July 1919, with the formula now complete: Crime, sob story, razzle-dazzle, and blaming the victim for their own death (i.e., the killing was accidental), a Cook County jury withdrew from the courtroom to deliberate on Vera’s fate.

Crime & Christie: Fool’s Gold

October 25, 2024October 10, 2024Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

A lump of Fool’s Gold

I’ve no clue why Vera Trepagnier chose Philadelphia as her hunting ground for a money-making opportunity for the Trumbull miniature. Yet, this decision proved fortuitous, as Vera learned the name of a man who fit the parameters of her needs perfectly — Paul Frederick Volland.

Originally hailing from Germany, Paul Frederick Volland worked as an engraver and diamond merchant prior to setting up his own firm (with two silent partners) in 1908. Whilst the P. F. Volland Company, as it was known, published all kinds of print-based products ranging from poetry to cookbooks and music to calendars. One of the firm’s specialties lay in creating beautiful, high-quality greeting cards and postcards — which undoubtedly is why Vera and her portrait were pointed in Paul F. Volland’s direction.

By all accounts, when Paul F. Volland met Vera in Philly in February 1917, he was so taken with the Trumbull miniature he made Vera an offer on the spot: If Vera would loan him Trumbull’s mini portrait of George Washington, he would, in turn, create and sell postcard-sized reproductions worthy of framing. Confident his company could easily sell 150,000 copies a year at a dollar a piece, Volland assured Vera she’d see at least $5,000 in royalties yearly.

This suited Vera’s needs down to the ground. Not only could she make money off the last vestige of her former fortune, but she’d also retain ownership of the picture. To a woman who’d hovered just above the poverty line for the better part of the three decades, this sum surely sounded like a godsend — not only in accomplishing her goal of helping her grandson with his education but with her own expenses as well. So, with visions of dollar signs dancing in her head, Vera lent Volland the miniature, signed the requisite contract, and received a $500 advance.

If this deal sounds like a bit of fool’s gold…..well……you’d be right.

After acquiring both her signature and the piece of art, Paul F. Volland ghosted Vera. A circumstance Vera didn’t realize until the promised royalty checks failed to materialize.

Puzzled, Vera wrote Volland.

According to later testimony, when Volland eventually responded to her missives, he informed Vera that the firm decided against printing and placing reproductions of her miniature on the market. Vera’s disappointment with Volland’s decision transformed into outrage a few months later when she spotted a copy of the supposedly abandoned print run in the window of a shop, framed and retailing for a whopping $2 — double the price he’d initially quoted her.

Unsurprisingly, Vera immediately took to her stationary, posting letter after letter to Paul F. Volland — without receiving a single reply. Unwilling to take his lie lying down and determined to get her property back, Vera made the momentous decision to leave Washington D. C. and accepted a tutoring position (or perhaps that of a maid, Vera’s words differ from the reporters on this point) with a wealthy family in Rock Island, Illinois, around November/December 1918.

Now living, give or take, only 168 miles from the P. F. Volland Company’s offices, Vera took the first opportunity she could to visit the man himself. (At this point, events become a tad muddled, as it’s unclear if Vera spoke to Volland in his office, if he was called down to the building’s lobby to talk with her there, or if they met on the street. Due to following events and some non-scientific deductions, I lean towards the middle option being the likeliest for this impromptu meeting.)

The P.F. Volland Company also published children’s books and the philosophy behind them.

Geography aside, when Volland met with Vera, he informed her that not only did the reproductions of the George Washington miniature not sell nearly as well as he’d originally envisioned, but if she wished to reacquire her property she’d need to write him a check for $174 (or about $3,026 in today’s money) to cover the shortfall between her advance and the postcard’s paltry sales. Moreover, if she wished to discuss the issue further, she would need to go through the P. F. Volland Company’s lawyers, as he would not speak with her directly again.

Incensed, Vera engaged lawyers of her own and immediately felt the full brunt of not asking a law professional to probe the contract before signing on the dotted line. Above and beyond the 1917 document being written entirely in favor of the P. F. Volland Company from top to bottom, the agreement also stipulated that upon reaching the $5,000 mark in royalties, Vera would cede ownership of the miniature to Paul F. Volland (not his company). Moreover, the deal left Vera with very little recourse in pursuing legal action against Volland, his company, or the ability to reacquire her precious Trumbull miniature.

Firmly convinced Paul F. Volland swindled her, Vera continued visiting not only Volland’s office building but the offices of various law firms around Chicago. The former cost nothing but time and pride, as Vera was repeatedly rebuffed by security/reception in the lobby on her successive visits. The latter endeavor, however, slowly bled Vera dry, making her more and more frantic for Volland’s promised payout as time wore on.

Upon reaching the last few pennies of her savings, Vera hatched a desperate plan.

The all woman’s hotel where Vera stayed (which I thought looked nice).

Sometime around late April to early May in 1919 — Vera Trepagnier traveled from Rock Island to Chicago. After checking into the Mary Dawes Hotel, an all-female establishment, Vera immediately set about enacting her single-step plan: Wait outside before the P. F. Volland Company’s office building until the man himself exited, then ambush him with an ultimatum: Either return the diminutive portrait of George Washington or pay $5,000.

So Vera waited. In rain and shine, she stayed vigilant until finally, on May 5, 1919, Vera seized the gold-plated opportunity her persistence presented her. Upon arriving for her self-appointed vigil, Vera spotted Volland’s car pulled against the curb. Knowing for certain he was on the premises, Vera, employing the alias Mrs. Martin, bamboozled her way through the lobby and reception until she stood before Paul F. Volland’s private office.

Upon emerging and catching sight of Vera, Volland uttered, “Oh, it’s you.”

Ignoring Paul F. Volland’s less-than-auspicious greeting, Vera Trepagnier launched into her demand for her money or property. Undoubtedly wishing to avoid providing fruit for the office gossips, as he knew Vera was more than capable of making a scene, Volland escorted her into his office whilst reiterating his position — she needed to speak with his lawyers about the Trumbull portrait, not him.

Despite Volland’s unwelcome visitor, the outer office activity continued to hum along…..Until a single report rang out from the otherside of Volland’s office doors and brought everyone running. Unceremoniously bursting into the room, two clerks found Volland dying on the floor from a bullet wound to his chest while Vera stood across the office, calmly staring out a window.

Crime & Christie: George Washington, Art, and Revolution

October 18, 2024October 10, 2024Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

My inspiration….

Recently, on a whim, I reread the Miss Marple short story The Bloodstained Pavement. After finishing the story (for the umpteenth time), an idle thought crossed my mind: I wonder if an artist has ever solved a crime whilst painting a painting? Curiosity sparked, I plugged in some keywords into an old newspaper archive.

It came back with:

Diverted by this curious headline (mere minutes after my original query flew through my head), I jotted down the brief list of names printed below the photo collage. Deciding I could spare a few seconds to suss out the meaning of this singular bit of news — I, in a fair imitation of The Fool, blithely stepped off an unobserved precipice.

Fast forward several months.

Surfacing from a mares’ nest of mind-boggling murders, wafer-thin defenses, and musical numbers — I’d grasped a slender thread (loosely) linking The Bloodstained Pavement and the aforementioned fantastic headline to a crap ton of crime in Chicago spanning betwixt 1907 to 1919.

And it all starts with an artist named John Trumbull.

Never heard of him before? Well, ten to one, you’ve probably seen his work: in history books, if you’ve ever been to the rotunda in the U.S. Capitol building (in Washington D.C.), scanned the back of a two-dollar bill, or gazed upon Alexander Hamilton’s portrait on a ten spot. How did Trumbull find himself commissioned with such momentous projects? Well, between being the son of Connecticut’s Governor, graduating from Harvard, and serving under George Washington & Horatio Gates during the American Revolution — Trumbull met a plethora of the fledgling country’s early leaders.

The scenes were all painted by Trumbull and the Portrait is of Trumbull himself.

However, before Trumbull became known for his hyper-detailed life-sized scenes, earned a commission from Congress, or painted the portraits of several founding fathers — he sailed for London in 1780. Unsurprisingly, whilst in the capital of the UK, Trumbull met up with Benjamin Franklin. (Seriously, Trumbull’s life is a who’s who of historical figures.) Franklin, in turn, introduced the aspiring artist to Benjamin West — whose subject matter meshed well with Trumbull’s artistic aspirations. Under West’s tutelage, Trumbull began practicing painting techniques by filling small canvasses with images of the war he’d fought in and miniature portraits.

Apparently, Trumbull enjoyed the latter exercise so much that he’d go on to paint over 250 of these mini-pics over the next 63-ish years.

Amongst the bevy of minis Trumbull created was a portrait of George Washington (one of his favorite subjects). Painted in predominantly blues and golds on an oval-shaped piece of ivory, it measured 2.25 by 1.75 inches. According to legend, after completing the Lilliputian sized portrait, Trumbull presented it to a Virginian bride as a wedding gift. After this, this unnamed bride moved both herself and the pocket-sized portrait to Kentucky. Next, the fun-sized painting relocated with one of her kids to Tennessee, her grandkids decamped with it in tow to Arkansas, and finally, it wound up in Louisiana, where it was gifted to Vera Trepagnier.

Elizabeth Vera McCullough or Vera (as she seemed to prefer), was born into a wealthy family in Belfast, Ireland, around 1860. Round about the age of seventeen, she and her family immigrated to the U.S. and settled in Louisiana. Sometime over the next seven years, Vera caught the eye of her future husband and sugar planter — Francois Edmund Trepagnier. The two married around 1886, when Vera was 24 and Francois was 52 (give or take). They had a son by the following year.

(Upon marrying Francois, Vera also became the stepmother to three kids from Francois’s first marriage — the eldest of whom was only two years younger than herself….which sounds….awkward.)

Fast-forward four years to when the Trepagnier sugar plantation flooded and ruined their entire crop. In the wake of the devastation and unable to recover, Francois and Vera were forced to economize: first, they let go of all their servants, then sold all their furniture, and finally, the plantation itself. Sadly, despite trying to find a fresh start in Florida, the pressure of unexpectedly tumbling downwards through a significant number of tax brackets proved too much for Francois. Who, whether by illness or suicide (it’s unclear), passed away around 1891.

Despite losing her husband, estate, and way of life, Vera retained possession of the diminutive Trumbull portrait.

In 1916, during the WWI war effort, about twenty-five years after these life-altering events, found Vera working for the Treasury Department in Washington D.C. Now a grandmother who wanted to help her grandson get a good education, Vera finally decided to investigate the legend around her pocket-sized portrait. Placing the ivory miniature beneath the lens of a microscope for a better look at the artist’s signature, Vera discovered the painting’s lore true. Even better, thanks to the private tutors who’d educated her in her youth, Vera not only knew who Trumbull was, she understood how valuable a rendering of George Washington by his hand could be.

With this knowledge, Vera traveled to Philadelphia, hoping to make money off the tiny thing while (hopefully) retaining possession of it.

(Cue dramatic music.)

Absinthe: Why “Absinthe made me do it!” Never Caught On, IMHO

February 25, 2024January 27, 2024Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

Amongst the treasure trove of Golden Age mysteries, we find Sherlock Holmes enjoying his seven percent solution, Philip Marlowe’s prodigious drinking makes the characters in Mad Men look like teetotalers, Elizabeth Daly pitted Henry Gamadge against a heroin addict in Somewhere In The House, and Dorothy L. Sayers engineered a plot where Lord Peter Wimsey broke up a cocaine ring in Murder Must Advertise…These and a title wave of like-minded plots prove Golden Age mystery writers (and those from the surrounding decades) didn’t shy away from including alcohol and/or illicit substances in their works.

Yet absinthe, the purported creator of fiends and madmen, rarely gets mentioned.

Above and beyond the fact that the “Absinthe Defense” repeatedly fell short in courtrooms, thereby making it less appealing as a McGuffin for writers, I think there are a couple of other factors as to why “Absinthe made me do it!” never became a trope in mysteries. (Or at least not among the tomes I’ve helped collectors locate or in the reprints I’ve cracked the covers of.)

First and foremost, UK scientists and physicians gave Magnan’s 1869 paper detailing his flawed test findings, the stink eye. Pointing out the same problem I saw when first encountering Magnan’s experiment — i.e., using wormwood oil rather than absinthe effectively negates the test as the essential oil contains significantly higher thujone levels than absinthe. So while France, Switzerland, and the USA (amongst others) lost their shirt over absinthism (which Magnan believed his test conclusively proved as a separate and worse disease than standard alcoholism) and the fiends the green fairy purportedly created.…This scientific side-eye damped the alarm over absinthism in the UK and is considered one of the main reasons Parliament dismissed the idea of banning the Green Fairy out of hand.

It also doesn’t hurt that absinthe never came anywhere close to supplanting Gin, Irish Whiskey, Single Malt, or Welsh Whisky in the hearts of British Isles imbibers. Otherwise, British distillers might have found themselves tempted to join forces with French vintners in their smear campaign against absinthe.

In any case, while the UK never banned absinthe, it doesn’t mean those who enjoyed the odd Frappe or Corpse Reviver at their local pub could do so. Unfortunately, when the Swiss and French bans landed, distilleries in both countries either switched production to a less contentious product or closed up shop. So, whilst the UK patrons could order a Sazerac or a Death in the Afternoon, most bartenders couldn’t shake or stir one up due to the lack of the key imported ingredient (according to the sources I read).

(Unless said pub owner, or their supplier, navigated the red tape around importing absinthe directly from Pernod’s distillery in Catalonia, Spain (where the liquor was never prohibited) until it closed in the 1960s. Or someone working in this theoretical pub somehow cultivated a connection to a Swiss home brewer. Despite the ban, Swiss fans with home distilling skills still produced it — though many switched their recipes to the clear version so they could pass their homemade efforts off as some other liquor if lawmen came a knocking.)

Then came WWI and WWII.

Under the hail of bombs, bullets, fear, and rationing, together with battlefield atrocities grabbing headlines and bans stymieing absinthe sales — news stories focused on crimes committed by “absinthe fiends” by and large fell away and without new fuel, the hullaballoo around absinthe slowly extinguished. Moreover, with people focusing on just surviving the day, for so many years, absinthe & its sinister reputation largely passed into urban legend.

In my estimation, this exit from the public’s day-to-day consciousness further rendered the “Absinthe made me do it!” solution unappealing to mystery writers. Since younger authors and audiences probably never tasted the anise flavored liquor or knew much about the brouhaha it caused. While mature authors and their readers could recall the attached lousy science and the ineffectualness of the absinthe defense in courts across Europe and the Americas.

Okay, these titles probably don’t mention absinthe within…but it’s what I’ve got!

Perhaps all these aforementioned reasons account for the general absence of absinthe in mysteries penned by the Queens of Crime: Agatha Christie, Margery Allingham, Ngaio Marsh, and Dorothy L. Sayers; The American Queens of Crime: Elizabeth Daly, Craig Rice, Mary Roberts Rinehart, and Phoebe Atwood Taylor; Plus: Georgette Heyer, Josephine Tey, and Patricia Wentworth. In this pantheon of titans, only three (I can recall off the top of my head) chose to employ absinthe in any of their stories.

Agatha Christie used absinthe in the 1926 Mr. Harley Quin short story The Soul of the Croupier to quickly flesh out the deterioration of a promising future due in part to absinthe’s influence. Similarly, Georgette Heyer employed absinthe in her 1934 novel The Unfinished Clue. Evoking the memory of the hedonistic existence and excess of turn-of-the-century artists to quickly sketch out a similar sort of character. And Craig Rice mentions the liquor in Headed For A Hearse as one of her characters is battling an absinthe inspired hangover with a plate of eggs (I believe).*

The relegation of absinthe to a piffling plot device by these Mistresses of Mystery, I think, struck the death knell of the “Absinthe made me do it!” solution before it ever had a chance to take off as a trope. Furthermore, the sheer dominance of these women’s works during the Golden Age of Detective Fiction (together with the lasting influence they still enjoy within the genre) played a significant role in perpetuating absinthe’s role as a bit player in plots.

And with heat now wafting from each vent of our house, repairmen on their way, and our cash reserves depleted — I bid adieu to another home repair inspired question until next November.

(But hopefully not.)

*If I failed to mention a reference (as I am not infallible, nor have I read the complete bibliography of each authoress — yet), please be nice if you wish to point out an omission.

Absinthe: People have killed for less…But not by much.

February 18, 2024January 22, 2024Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

This photo is by Timon Studler.

Now that we’ve established absinthe’s meteoric rise and even faster fall in the realm of public opinion, we can now focus on my original question: Why haven’t I read mysteries where, during the summing up, the malefactor yells, “Absinthe made me murder/rob/eat Uncle Singin McBuzzleworth!”

One Unscientific Opinion/Answer: The “Absinthe made me do it!” defense didn’t hold up in real-life courtrooms.

When examining classic mystery and real-life motives like avarice, revenge, envy, and sex — the “Absinthe made me do it!” defense appears weak by comparison. Moreover, despite large swaths of the population (within many countries) purportedly believing absinthe poisoned the minds and hearts of any who partook of the Green Fairy’s potion — defense councils were still hard-pressed to engender enough sympathy in jury members to make this justification stick.

Take the case of Auguste-Leon Thabuis.

Near the township of Dole in the department of Jura in France sits Saint-Ylie Hospital (or Asylum; the French translator app I used was not flawless). Back in 1909, the 1,500 people (or so) residing within Saint-Ylie were separated into different pavilions by age and gender then sub-divided further based on their ailment — those possessing some sort of paralysis lived in one ward, those with mental health issues in another, and the “incurables” (their word, not mine) lived in their own wing.

Saint-Ylie Hospital.

In April 1909, the hospital director hired Auguste-Leon Thabuis to work in the men’s paralysis ward. Besides discovering he owned a terrific thirst, which he quenched at a nearby tavern, hospital administrators found no problem with Thabuis’s work.

Fast forward seven months.

On Friday, November 19, 1909, Thabuis reported to his supervisor that Justin Garneret (age 61) had died. Busy with one thing or another, Thabuis’s superior didn’t take the time to look the body over, instead they told Thabuis to get on with it. Which he did — leaving Justin Garnet’s body in his room, Thabuis went to prepare the earth for her newest resident — as he also moonlighted as a gravedigger and amphitheater boy for the hospital when needed.

Now it’s unclear precisely what roused the other nurses’ suspicions, perhaps because Justin Garneret’s death came completely out-of-the-blue or the curious piece of serendipity which found four other patients passing away, about one every other day, on Thabuis’s watch starting on November 10, 1909. Either way, they snuck a peek at Mr. Garneret’s body whilst Thabuis was away….And were rewarded with the sight of darkening fingermarks encircling Mr. Garneret’s neck.

Fetching Hospital Director Bierry and Chief Physician Santenoise, the nurses explained their misgivings and subsequent discovery.

At about this point, Thabuis returned to Mr. Garneret’s room with a coffin. In the ensuing conversation, during which I imagine Thabuis sweating more than a few bullets, Dr. Santenoise questioned the nurse about the undeniable signs of strangulation. Unfortunately (for Thabuis), the Chief Physician didn’t buy the story he spun: That one of the lunatics must’ve snuck out of their ward, into his, strangled Mr. Garneret, then crept back to their room — their absence and presence remaining undetected by everyone the entire time.

Thabuis is (obviously) the gentleman on the left.

When the public prosecutor, examining magistrate, their clerk, and two trained forensic examiners answered Dr. Santenoise’s summons, Thabuis told them that Mr. Garneret attacked him and he’d been forced to defend himself. This explanation, which went over about as well as his first, prompted Thabuis’s immediate arrest — during which he cried out, “I’m innocent! I’m innocent!” Mr. Garneret’s autopsy, carried the same night around eight pm, confirmed the nurses’ worst fears — he was indeed murdered.

The Question Was: Did the other four patients who died under Thabuis’s care over the past eight days meet the same fate?

Performing a quadruple exhumation and autopsy the following Friday, authorities found some answers. Sadly, the bodies of the first two possible victims decomposed to the point where murder couldn’t be conclusively proven. The third victim, Francoise-Emile Menefere (age 54), bore bruises in the outline of two hands around his neck and a bruise on his chest. The fourth victim, Xavier Guinez (age 54), sported a similar bruising pattern as well as a row of four broken ribs and other defensive injuries. (It seems in addition to using his hands, the murderer used his knees to compress his victim’s chest to hasten the deed.)

My photo of a glass of absinthe!

With cause of death now established and confident they had their man, investigators turned to motive…..which proved troubling. Not because they found its establishment difficult but because the only dependable benefit Thabuis received from any of the deaths was the single extra franc he earned for each grave he dug. This veritable pittance was hastily spent at the neighborhood tavern. Where, when “flush” with cash, Thabuis reputedly drank up to four liters of wine and twenty-two glasses of absinthe.

All these facts & theories, together with the unsavory intelligence Thabuis sent notes to grieving families asking if they’d like him to maintain their loved ones’ graves in exchange for a small donation, emerged during his trial, which commenced in July of 1910. (It’s unclear if Thabuis wrote the families of the men he murdered.) This seedy behavior, coupled with a job history that included terminations due to theft, insolence towards a nun, coming to work while inebriated, and serving a three-month prison sentence for insulting a Swiss police officer — didn’t help his case.

However, his public defender, Milleret, was up to the task.

Amongst the sixteen witnesses called by the prosecution, Milleret determined that while all the nurses, who’d first raised the alarm, believed Thabuis culpable in the murder of Mr. Garneret (based on his and their movements that day), none could confidently assign his hand to the deaths of Mr. Menefere or Mr. Guinez. While the prosecution argued that Mr. Garneret’s murder proved the pattern. Milleret countered this by pointing out that the prosecution could not call a single “reliable” eyewitness to the crimes.

(Now, here comes the cream, at least for the question I’m trying to answer.)

In a Classic Scenario of ‘I didn’t do it. But if I did it.’: Milleret attempted to establish that Thabuis suffered from a classic case of hereditary degeneration and, therefore, shouldn’t be held accountable for his actions. (Yes, this case explicitly put absinthism to the test.) Not only did Thabuis prefer the embrace of the green fairy above all others — Milleret argued this devotion/addiction decayed Thabuis’s moral fiber to the point where taking another man’s life in pursuit of another glass felt justifiable. Moreover, due to weak genes he’d inherited from his father, whose excessive drinking sent him to an early grave six years prior, Thabuis’s ethical putrefaction was all but guaranteed.

It’s unclear if the alienist the prosecutor brought in successfully refuted Thabuis’s defense or (more likely in my estimation due to the slant of the newspaper reports) the members of the jury couldn’t overcome the repugnance of Thabuis killing a man for a single franc. Either way, it only took the jury three-quarters of an hour to find Thabuis guilty of Mr. Garneret’s murder and sentence him to seven years in prison and a ten-year ban of stay. (I’ve no clue what that last bit means. Maybe it banned him from working in another hospital for ten years after his release?)

In any case, the regular rejection of Magnan and Legrain’s absinthism defense by juries presents a fascinating counterpoint to the anti-absinthe campaign, which embraced these theories and was, at that moment in time, gaining momentum across several continents. Perhaps if women, the backbone of the temperance movement, were allowed to serve on juries during this period, acquittals based on the “Absinthe made me do it!” wouldn’t have been rarer than hen’s teeth.

Moreover, the lack of acquittals based solely on “Absinthe made me do it!” may have signaled to Golden Age mystery writers the inherent weakness in this particular solution. Since their livelihoods were based on fashioning viable and (generally) believable solutions for their readers, placing the blame solely on absinthe for the unfortunate fate befalling Uncle Singin McBuzzleworth could place a lackluster ending on an otherwise strong story — which might cause an author to lose readers.

An idea I imagine any pro would find insupportable.

Absinthe: Let’s All Panic!

February 11, 2024January 22, 2024Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

When you don’t have a fancy absinthe spoon, you can make due with a fork!

While increased availability and/or Magnan and Legrain’s theories swayed some back towards wine (which most experts considered harmless), a far greater number now viewed the absinthe as a guilty pleasure — which only enhanced its protracted pizzaz. This not-so-subtle brush-off made teetotalers, doctors, and winemakers despaired over the idea that they may never rid themselves of the glittering Green Fairy.

Then Jean Lanfray came along.

Originally a Frenchman, Jean Lanfray lived and worked in Switzerland. Arriving home on the afternoon of August 28, 1905, Lanfray promptly picked a fight with his wife over the state of his boots. Seems she hadn’t gotten around to waxing them as he’d requested and, in short order, both spouses were seething. When Lanfray told his wife to shut up….She said, “I’d like to see you make me!” Whereupon he fetched his Vetterli rifle — shot his wife in the head, turned the gun on his two daughters (both under five), then attempted to kill himself.

After his arrest, the reeling residents of Commugny (the town in which Lanfray and his family lived) attended a townhall meeting on September 3, 1905, where they learned Lanfray ingested two ounces of absinthe and that his wife was about four months pregnant with their son at the time of her murder. Horrified at the latter revelation and feeling powerless in the wake of this senseless violence, townsfolk needed someone or something to blame. Unable to put Lanfray immediately on trial, as he lay in a nearby hospital recovering from his suicide attempt, they chose absinthe as their scapegoat. Within days of the assembly, the citizenry sent a petition with 82,000 signatures to their state capital, asking legislators to ban the “Green Monster”.

The unintended consequence of the community’s appeal? They set a clear defense strategy for Lanfray’s lawyers — absinthe made him do it. An assertion medical experts supported during Lanfray’s brief trial. Absinthe notwithstanding, the fact Lanfray also quaffed seven glasses of wine, six glasses of cognac, two coffees laced with brandy, and two creme de menthes on that fateful Monday diluted the effectiveness of this defense. And while this prodigious intake prior to the murders and his very obvious remorse kept his neck out of the noose, on February 23, 1906 a jury found Lanfray guilty of murder.

Three days after being sentenced to thirty years imprisonment Lanfray, haunted by his own actions, would hang himself in his jail cell.

I apologize for the racial slur, which I will not repeat in English, at the start of this poster. The rest of the poster is by Swiss women begging legislators to ban absinthe in order to secure women’s safety in the home.

Despite the clear flaw in the blame game being played (i.e. the liters of other alcohol Lanfray consumed), on May 15, 1906, the Canton of Vaud (the state where Commugny is located) banned absinthe. Shortly thereafter, Geneva followed suit in response to their own absinthe-drinking husband named Sallez, who murdered his wife about a month after Lanfray’s crimes. (Brazil and Belgium beat both to the punch by banning absinthe outright in 1905.)

Temperance unions extracted an entirely different lesson from this series of tragic events.

They discovered a potent weapon in their fight — moral panic. By spotlighting every crime where absinthe played a role, even a minor one, they could catastrophize the “threat” absinthe posed to society’s safety and wellness. To this end, not only were Magnan’s skewed scientific experiments widely reprinted along with his theories on absinthism, Legrain lent his time, reputation, and words: “….after three years’ absinthe drinking a man becomes weak minded…moody, taciturn, suspicious, eccentric, untrustworthy and apt to quarrel without cause. If he continues to take the deadly liquor his body becomes an automaton, and he obeys without hesitation the auto-suggestions of his mind often killing, maiming and destroying with savage glee those nearest and dearest to him.”

One of the many serialized pieces used to whip up fear in the U.S.

Fanning the anti-absinthe flames further, temperance unions and their members began churning out art, movies, and pamphlets corroborating these scientific findings. The most effective arrow in their quiver? Syndicated newspaper articles, in which the author detailed the alarming or violent behavior of absinthe drinkers. Amongst the many offenses attributed to “absinthe fiends” were: A) A man named Valentin Boyer, who was convinced that his enemies were persecuting him via electricity. When circumstances forced him to enter Paris, he donned a 385-pound coat made of copper and a hat made of lead with a visor covering his face. He was promptly arrested for his odd appearance. B) A man attending a national fete set fire to 37 dresses as he couldn’t resist applying his cigar to every blue dress he saw. C) A woman of good standing was arrested and imprisoned for setting fire to a village near Lucerne and destroying several houses owned by “the poor.” D) Near Nyon, an absinthe addict maimed cattle and set a series of fires. E) A 12-year-old girl was stabbed to death near Thorwaldensen’s Lion of Lucerne by a man employed at a match factory in Geneva. F) A man decapitated a young girl in Lausanne. G) Six Valois guides murdered a tourist and hacked him to pieces. H) Whilst in police psychiatric care, it was noted absinthe addicts would often try to bite off and eat pieces of their friends and family’s faces when they leaned in for a kiss.

Unsurprisingly, these tales of arson, murder, and cannibalism snowballed as editors keen on increasing their readership (and/or were part of the temperance movement themselves) lept onto the anti-absinthe bandwagon. Not only did they feature any local/regional cases that even tangentially intersected with the “green monster.” They also published their own exposes on the dangers absinthe posed to their communities. Some linked the drink to the same dangers posed by opium or morphine. Others warned husbands to watch their wives lest they be lured into absinthe dens and robbed of their pin money and jewelry while they lay in an absinthe-induced stupor. Still others advised parents to keep a weather eye on their daughters lest absinthe tempt them into a wickedness and ruin.

Another serialized pieces used to whip up fear in the U.S.

At some point, one bright bulb took this fear-mongering to another level by linking Magnan and Legrain’s theories of social degeneration due to absinthe drinking to the bitter loss of Alsace-Lorraine during the Franco-Prussian War in 1871. Doubling down newspapers across the world started questioning France’s fighting fitness (and, by extension, every other country that allowed absinthe within its borders). Thereby creating a green-tinted scapegoat for the growing anxiety and helplessness people felt as they watched Germany, the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy, and the Ottoman Empire growing stronger as the world hurtled towards 1914 and the start of World War One. (Though they didn’t know it yet.)

Unsurprisingly, this relentless pressure and constant fear bore fruit in 1909 when the Netherlands banned the spirit. Switzerland amended its constitution to add an absinthe prohibition in 1910, the USA’s Pure Food and Drug Act barred its import in 1912, and France banned the spirit in 1914.

From the Office of Cynical Speculation: When reading these “reports” of absinthe induced crimes cracks start to appear when they inevitably reference the Lanfray case. Rarely do any of these “news stories” cite Lanfray by name; none mention the date of his offenses or conviction, nor the specific town where the murders took place. They generally refer to him as a farmer living near Coppet who murdered his young wife and children.

Why so vague? Not only with Lanfray but in the description of the other cases? Other than the rare mention of Lanfray by name, only the first of my examples ever mentioned one of these “absinthe fiends” by name — few gave a specific location and none contained a firm date.

Playing Devil’s Advocate Here: They could have omitted these details to keep the newspaper column under a specific word count. Or perhaps the authors thought these examples were so famous everyone would instantly get the reference. I know the Lanfray case became the cause célèbre in Europe for a time thanks to the anti-absinthe movement. So, it’s not out of the realm of possibility.

However, the doubting Thomas living in the back of my brain wonders if the lack of detail stems from the desire to obfuscate the particulars of their examples…..In order to make it difficult for the public or their opponents (of which there were more than a few, though they were far less organized and funded) to suss out details which didn’t align with the thrust of the anti-absinthe campaigner’s aims. Again, take the Lanfray case as an example. If those unfamiliar with the murders learned of the liters of wine and wine-based beverages he consumed and compared it to the two ounces of absinthe….Well, people might draw a different conclusion and blame the wrong kind of alcohol — which flies in the faces of winemakers’ self-interest. Hence why it may’ve been left out.

So what about the other examples of absinthe-induced crimes? Do they own similar inconsistencies?

I don’t know. I attempted to verify the finer points of the other cautionary tales and came up with bupkis. I couldn’t find a single newspaper piece aligning with the criminal information outlined in these syndicated articles. In fairness, these purported transgressions are well over a century old, and my French (while improving) is still lackluster at best.

While, I do not believe the authors made this anecdotal evidence up….…I am not sure they were above exaggeration either.

Absinthe: Mary Poppins, Bad Science, & Teetotalers

February 4, 2024January 27, 2024Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

‘A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down. The medicine go down. The medicine go down…’ Originally, this ditty sung by MaryPoppins meant to teach her charges how changing their perspective could make any task fun — and as a kid, I lapped Ms. Poppins’ lesson right up. Not long after, my folks skewed the song’s meaning to a more literal interpretation, i.e., taking actual medicine. (Without giving me an actual spoonful of sugar or some other substitute — much to my younger self’s disappointment.) This ever-so-slight adjustment introduced the idea that songs, art, and books could take on new meanings separate from the creator’s original intent.

Fast forward a few decades to the day my brain took this ditty’s refrain one step further by wondering if A Spoonful of Sugar shouldn’t be absinthe’s unofficial anthem. After all, absinthe did originally start out as a medicine (whether or not it was effective treatment is a different story), and the ritual around consuming the notorious spirit does often include a sugar cube…..Set on a slotted spoon which rests upon the rim of a glass which contains absinthe. When all the elements are assembled in the correct order the water dripper is turned on and the sugar cube is gradually dissolved — one water droplet at a time.

A Pic of a picnic with absinthe cocktails in tow.

(Fun Fact: A Spoonful of Sugar owes its origins to the songwriter’s son, who inspired his father with how he received his polio vaccine.)

What’s the point of waiting ages for the sugar cube to completely dissolve?

Not only does the sugar sweeten and round out the taste of absinthe (according to experts) — you’re rewarded with the pageantry of the ouzo effect. Otherwise known as louching, as each drop of water falls into the absinthe, the ice cold drip steadily transforms the crystal clear green liquid into cloudy opalescence. This unhurried ceremony forces the imbiber to slow down, be patient, and present in the moment. Lessons which I think Mary Poppins, who herself enjoys the odd glass of rum punch, would approve.

An absinthe water dripper & specialized spoons.

Interestingly enough, this pomp & circumstance around drinking a dram of absinthe was perfected by the French during decades spanning the mid to late nineteenth century. Culminating l’heure verte or the green hour, where people would flock to their favorite drinking joint from five to seven pm and partake in absinthe’s relaxed razzle-dazzle.

(Fun Fact: L’heure verte is the precursor to what we now call Happy Hour.)

A pic from 1916 of Valentin Magnan.

Yet not everyone in France was spellbound by absinthe’s sedate charm. The man considered the foremost authority on mental illness (upon his appointment to the post of physician and chief of Sainte-Anns asylum in 1867), Valentin Magnan, held absinthe responsible for the overall decline of the French people. He also believed this degeneration via absinthe (and alcohol in general) was passed on genetically from one generation to another — and was inevitable. He came to this conclusion due to the uptick in those admitted to his asylum and the study of over two hundred and fifty alcoholics under his care. Magnan’s research convinced him that those addicted to absinthe suffered far worse and from distinct symptoms than those who drunk pretty much anything else.

(BTW: Other doctors and newspapers criticized Magnan for giving cold comfort to those “afflicted” by this absinthe/alcohol induced degeneration theory and robbing those genetically related to them of all hope of avoiding a similar fate.)

So, of course, Magnan coined a term.

Absinthism, he believed, was characterized by hallucinations, delirium, bouts of amnesia, tremors, sleeplessness, seizures, and violent fits brought on by one of absinthe’s key ingredients — wormwood. A man of science, Magnan sought to prove his absinthism theory by conducting a series of tests. Procuring two guinea pigs, he placed each under their own glass domes. In one enclosure, Magnan placed a saucer of pure alcohol; in the other, he set a saucer of wormwood oil and then watched the animals inhale the vapors. Whilst the guinea pig with alcohol merely grew inebriated, the one exposed to wormwood oil grew highly excited, then collapsed into seizures and died.

You see the problem with his experiment, don’t you? Magnan didn’t use absinthe. He used wormwood oil.

A drawing of what Artemisia Absinthium looks like.

This concentrated form of Artemisia Absinthium owns significantly more thujone (the chemical compound responsible for the animal’s seizures) than the common wormwood plant or absinthe. Hence, Magnan did some spectacularly bad science by performing an experiment guaranteed to prove his theory.

(From the Office of Fairness: It’s unclear if Magnan made this error in good faith, i.e., just an ordinary cockup — or — if he tested absinthe on the animals and switched to wormwood oil when they failed to prove his theory.)

Magnan also didn’t take into account the adulterated versions of absinthe floating around France by this time, either. Unlike wine or brandy, absinthe had no governmental oversight keeping distillers honest. So as absinthe’s popularity grew, unscrupulous manufacturers would contaminate poor quality absinthe or create fraudulent versions by adding things like parsley, turmeric & indigo or copper sulfate to enhance or attain absinthe’s trademark green hue and antimony trichloride to achieve the spirit’s signature ouzo effect. Whilst parsley and turmeric aren’t a problem, the other substances aren’t particularly good for you when ingested and could account for the array of symptoms Magnan attributed to absinthism. Moreover, the people most likely to partake of the polluted versions, the desperately poor and alcoholics who’ve hit rock bottom, were more likely to wind up institutionalized than their wealthier counterparts — thereby skewing Magnan’s theory from the outset.

Flawed as Magnan’s methodology was, he felt confident enough to publish a paper on the perils of absinthe, its chronic use, and absinthism in 1869. (And its flawed conclusions have bedeviled absinthe ever since).

Two paintings depicting the Green Fairy’s influence.

The bohemian artists of France embraced a slice of Magnan’s findings. Loudly extolling the virtues of absinthe’s purported psychedelic properties, they claimed brought a clarity of mind, which in turn enhanced their creativity. Naming absinthe’s muse like qualities the Green Fairy, artists like Manet, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Alfred Jarry, Oscar Wilde, and Vincent Van Gough all sought out absinthe’s warm embrace and some even put her into their works.

(Fun Fact?: Critics of absinthe are forever pointing at the generally early deaths of these aforementioned artists as proof of absinthe’s toxic qualities. However, what these fault finding individuals generally ignore is this group of artists also enjoyed a host of other ailments like syphilis, TB, and mental illnesses which alcohol of any variety would’ve exacerbate.)

A photo of Dr. Paul Maurice Legrain and some of the propaganda he helped create. (The first three contain absinthe references and the last one is translate.)

In any case, these wholehearted endorsements of absinthe’s spectacular effects cut little ice with the growing conservativeness in France, including a student of Magnan’s, Dr. Paul Maurice Legrain. Like his mentor, Legrain too was a chief physician of an insane asylum, only he specialized in the treatment of alcoholics. While his mentor viewed absinthe as the sole author of France’s decline, Legrain widened this stance, considering alcohol and alcoholism as the root of France’s social evils. However, rather than doing medical research into how to successfully treat the disease, Legrain threw himself into France’s growing temperance movement. In 1897 he founded the French Anti-Alcoholic Union then grew its membership numbers from 40,000 in 1903 to 125,000 in 1914.

At about this point, the late 1890s, French grapevines and vintners had bounced back (which took about thirty years), thanks to grafting and hybridization with louse-resistant American vines….Only to discover they’d a formidable rival. Even worse, a substantial number of drinkers were uninterested in abandoning absinthe’s leisurely glitz & glam or its lower price point. Leaving French wine producers flailing about for ideas on how to rid themselves of this brash green upstart.

Then came the afternoon of August 28, 1905.

Absinthe: Home Repairs, A Questionable Mystery Trope, & Bugs

January 28, 2024January 22, 2024Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

It wouldn’t be late, late November unless service techs found something catastrophically wrong with our house….This time, our favorite plumber, Daniel, informed us: “Dude, your heating ducts are all messed up.” Which was great for him, as he could crawl around the bowls of our house and stay toasty, but for us? Not so much. When the HVAC tech shimmied into our crawlspace later the next week, he concurred with Daniel’s diagnosis. Apparently, nearly every one of the heat registers our furnace furnished with hot air wasn’t correctly connected and, in a couple of cases, not attached at all.

Sigh.

Of course, this meant the rapid dwindling of our savings and a couple days of strangers wandering around the house, thereby making it impossible for me to work on my other blog, which meant I could research a true crime or crime fiction topics to my heart’s content!

This year’s home repair inspired topic? Absinthe!

More specifically, if this green-hued spirit contained the power to corrupt the morals of anyone who drank it, erode entire cultures, and create fiends capable of committing grisly crimes (according to newspapers around the turn of the twentieth century). Then why haven’t I ever read a mystery where someone confesses ‘Absinthe made me do it!’ during the penultimate summing up? Variations of this basic defense, with supporting medical expert testimony, reached real-life courtrooms. So why not the page?

It turns out the answer to this question was far more circuitous than I had ever imagined. And to understand why ‘Absinthe made me do it!’ never caught on as a trope in mystery novels — I needed to unravel how absinthe came to be glorified then vilified in the first place.

Apparently, it all started with a bug named Phylloxera.

A pic of the different stages and sexes of Phylloxera from Le Monde Illustre

Unlike the indiscriminate palate of their aphid cousins, these native North American pests dine exclusively on grapevines. Targeting not only the plant’s leaves, Phylloxera loves chomping on roots as well, causing significant damage and deformation. If that wasn’t bad enough, these sapsuckers’ ceaseless chewing opens the plants up to a lethal secondary fungal infection. Worse still, even today, there’s no known cure for the louse or the fungus. While American vines evolved defenses to discourage this pest, nineteenth-century European vines (and those from the rest of the world, for that matter) were uniquely susceptible.

Part of the damage these bugs do to the grapevine roots & the bug. 1, 2, & 3

You don’t need to be The Amazing Kreskin to see where this is going.

It’s unclear exactly how Phylloxera managed to arrive across the pond. Some blame Victorian-era botanists for bringing tainted plant matter to England (as the bug devastated UK vines first). Others think European growers brought the pox down upon themselves through unregulated importation and experimentation with American grapevines. Still others believe the advent of the steamship, which allowed for quicker trips across the Atlantic, allowed the bug to hitch a ride and survive the crossing. Regardless of whichever explanation is true, in 1863, grape growers in France started reporting Phylloxera infestations — and in the blink of an eye, vineyards across France (and Europe) started failing.

While pockets of land inexplicably remained free from Phylloxera’s incessant hunger, it’s estimated that in fifteen short years, France lost anywhere between forty to sixty percent of its vines and vintners (the rest of Europe did not fare any better). To say this loss dramatically reduced the output of French wineries is an understatement — from 1875 to 1889, production fell by a staggering seventy-two percent. Of course, this led to skyrocketing wine and brandy prices which fewer and fewer people could afford to pay — thanks to the unemployment and resulting economic slump caused by the mass closures of farms, winemakers, and merchants.

Whilst mourning the loss of merlots, chardonnays, and rieslings — the French public was already primed with an alternative tipple.

A Pernod advertising poster.

During the 1830 French invasion and colonization of Algeria, troops were given absinthe to help prevent malaria. Not unlike the British officers in India, who found the taste of quinine-laced tonic water so off-puttingly bitter that they invented the gin & tonic cocktail to make it palatable, French soldiers started mixing absinthe with their wine rations for the same reason. When soldiers began returning home from the front lines, they brought a taste for absinthe with them. When France captured Algeria in 1834, the public keen on celebrating said ‘victory’ adopted the official hooch of the military campaign.

So, whilst grape growers scrabbled around trying to find a solution to the havoc wreaking root louse (which included pesticides, chickens, and burying dead toads), the French public turned to absinthe to quench their thirst.

Rough on Rats: From the Office of Cynical Speculation

December 29, 2023October 17, 2023Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

Since using dangerous and/or addictive compounds in patent “medicines” was common and we know Ephraim had large quantities of arsenic on his hands, I wonder how many of his other products contained traces of this dangerous element. A number of the claims made in the ads for Wells’ beauty aids and “medicines” sound remarkably similar to the effects (the crazy people during the Victorian era) achieved by applying arsenic to their skin or by eating small quantities.

Though I’ve no clue if Ephraim Wells added arsenic to any of his pills, tonics, or syrups — I do know what he put in Wells’ Hair Basalm for Gray Hair:

“…a perfumed mixture of sulphur with aqueous solution of lead acetate and glycerol…”

In 1912, the US government via the 1906 Pure Foods and Medicines Act caught up with Ephraim’s claims that his basalm was “harmless and not a dye.” The chemists not only proved the basalm contained dye but also consisted of lead. A heavy metal that was finally proven highly toxic in the mid-1800s. Making me wonder how many women suffered lead poisoning from the habitual use of Wells’ basalm.

In any case, Ephraim plead non-vult or no-contest to the charge. Though, unlike the majority of his contemporaries tried for similar offenses, the court didn’t levy a fine against Ephraim.

Probably, and this is speculation on my part, because he was pretty sick at that point in time.

Rough on Rats: Bad Taste

December 22, 2023October 17, 2023Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

(Head in the sand or in this case underwater….)

Whilst it’s impossible for me to say if Ephraim Stockton Wells was aware of either Gertrude Taylor or Ella Holdridge, I cannot imagine him unaware of the unintended consequences of his patent product. Accidental deaths, suicides, and murders abounded for years in “all civilized nations of the earth” where Rough on Rats was sold. The comic below, which he included in one of his ads, proves at least by 1901, Ephraim knew of one common misuse of Rough on Rats.

At best, including this comic strip was in poor taste. At worst, it shows his contempt for the multitudes of people who’d used his product for this purpose.

More likely, and this is conjecture on my part, he was thumbing his nose at all the physicians, lawyers, and scientists who’d criticized him and Rough on Rats for DECADES. Not only did they take exception to the lack of information about Rough on Rats’ composition on the label. (Remember it was a patent product: Meaning the name, not the formula, was trademarked. Hence, it did need to include this info.) These professionals also laid a portion of the blame for the product’s misuse at his door.

And I don’t think they are wrong.

Very few ads, which Ephraim Stockton Wells proudly boasted he wrote and illustrated himself, mention Rough on Rats in the same breath as poison. In fact, the only ones I found that clearly state Rough on Rats is a poison was after 1901 when state governments started catching up with what their residents had already figured out: Rough on Rats killed people just as well as rodents. And started requiring Ephraim’s most popular product (and those like it) be “plainly labeled as poison.”

Which he did.

However, Rough on Roches, Ants & Bedbugs — and — Rough on Moth, Fly & Flea are clearly marketed as non-poisonous. The only problem is, up until now, Rough on Rats claimed to kill these same pests. While I suppose it is possible Ephraim changed his formula to something akin to Diatomaceous Earth (a non-toxic substance that can deal with these bugs), which started being mined in Germany around 1863, I’m not totally sold on the idea he swapped formulas as, as far as I can tell, Ephraim still didn’t disclose the ingredients for either of these insecticides. Though, in fairness, I’ve not found them linked to any human deaths.

Above and beyond Ephraim’s failure to disclose arsenic as Rough on Rats’ primary ingredient, I think what critics really took exception to was his recommended mechanisms for delivering Rough on Rats to rodents and other pests.

One of the main difficulties facing any rodenticide is poison shyness.

Poison shyness is where rats and mice learn to associate the smell, taste, or similar types of food with becoming sick after eating it. (Hence, why they nibble at food before wholesale scarfing ensues.) Once said aversion is triggered, it can take weeks or months for rodents to forget why they won’t snack on whatever made them sick. This explains why premade poisonous pellets, cakes, and blocks rapidly lose their effectiveness.

Ephraim skirted this thorny problem by asking his customers to mix their own bait. For indoor mouse issues, he suggested blending Rough on Rats with bacon grease, lard, or butter, then spreading it on a piece of bread or meat. Upon completing this step, he instructed his customers to place the adulterated food wherever they’d seen them scurrying around in the past.

As strategies go, it’s sound.

By giving your vermin morsels they’ve already taste-tested, you avoid triggering their evolutionary adaptation. Unfortunately, despite the bit of coal dust added in for coloring to help make Rough on Rats’ addition to food & drink more obvious, in the middle of the night, bleary eyes accompanied by a growling stomach only see the triangles of buttered bread left on a kitchen counter as a tempting snack — not as bait. (BTW: This really happened and the midnight-snacker didn’t make it.)

Then, there’s the secondary poisoning risk presented by Ephraim’s directions for dispatching sparrows, squirrels, chipmunks, skunks, gophers, and moles. He asked customers to combine the thinly disguised powdered arsenic with cornmeal or boiled potatoes and then spread the amalgamation about the yard, field, or undergrowth. This method, of course, led to numerous pet and livestock deaths.

Moreover, prior to Rough on Rats’ 1901 schism from insects, Ephraim’s instructions on how to administer the Rough on Rats to eradicate infestations of flies, fleas, ticks, lice, gnats, water bugs, ants, cockroaches, beetles, potato bugs, and bedbugs virtually ensured accidental exposure (and sometimes death) to pets, children, and adults. Because no matter how carefully one crams arsenic-laded grease into the seams of a bed frame, floorboards, or baseboards — you either get the stuff on your fingers during the application process, while you sleep, or walk across the floor. (To deal with bedbugs, fleas, and beetles.) Never mind dusting shelves in pantries, cupboards, or inside kitchen drawers with a mixture of confectioners sugar and Rough on Rats. (To dispatch cockroaches and beetles.)

These widely published methods of assassinating pests, in a roundabout way, also gave the idea of how to dispatch other humans. Because if rats didn’t taste the poison, how could humans?

So, while you could argue Ephraim’s doesn’t bear all the blame for the deaths linked to Rough on Rats….his conscience isn’t exactly clear either.

Though whether or not Ephraim felt this burden is unknown, as according to people more learned than I, he didn’t leave any writing (open to public perusal at least) on the subject upon his death in 1913. Nor did his sons, who’d taken over the day-to-day operations of Ephraim’s empire around 1903.

Happily, Rough on Rats eventually faded from store shelves and popularity as other rodenticides and pesticides surged in popularity. (DDT, Thallium, and Warfarin, for example — all of which caused their own chaos.) In 1955, Ephraim’s family sold the brand Rough on Rats to Brown Manufacturing Co. in Le Roy, New York. They, in turn, went out of business sometime in the sixties.

Ending Rough on Rats reign.

Rough on Rats: Pressing Her Luck

December 15, 2023October 17, 2023Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

Flush with success and brimming with confidence over her first induced funeral, Ella Holdridge waited (about) five days before feeding her obsession with death, funerals, and wakes.

Only this time, Ella made a mistake.

Whilst plenty of people noticed the two girls playing together on the day Leona fell ill, no one for a moment suspected Ella played a role in the toddler’s lingering death. Mainly because of the two-year-old’s inability to utter anything sensible after ingesting the water Ella polluted with Rough on Rats.

However, this time, Ella targeted a pair of sisters — Susie & Jennie Eggleston.

Due to the sensationalization of this case, there’s some ambiguity on what exactly happened next. (Newspapers of this era absolutely loved to hype up crimes like this — often at the expense of the facts.) However, these things seem certain: In and around July 16, 1892, Mrs. Eggelston decided to go shopping in Buffalo, NY (about twelve miles from their neighborhood in Tonawanda) — leaving her daughters at home. Now, one way or another, either knowing beforehand via the neighborhood grapevine or sussing out the intelligence from the pair as they played on their front porch — Ella realized the lack of adult supervision afforded her an opportunity to generate a double funeral.

Using her status as an older kid (as she was fourteen to their ten and five) and the promise of making them “something nice,” Ella managed to herd the two inside their house. After (possibly) locking the doors after they went inside, Ella made a pot of cocoa with a generous measure of her secret ingredient, Rough on Rats, thrown in. When one of the sisters complained about the cocoa’s taste and refused to drink anymore, Ella compelled the girl to drink it: Through either verbal coercion, pushing her onto a sofa and pouring it down her throat, or throwing her onto the floor and forcing the liquid between her lips. After ensuring Susie and Jennie finished their mugs of cocoa, Ella told them not to tell anyone about what happened and left.

Later that evening, both girls became extraordinarily ill and their parents sent for Dr. Edmunds.

As both Susie and Jennie had been the picture of health prior to their mother’s trip into Buffalo and they’d pretty much identical symptoms which started nearly simultaneously — Dr. Edmunds suspected they’d gotten into something poisonous. Can you imagine his surprise upon learning about Ella’s strange-tasting hot chocolate and even stranger behavior? Then word reached him about another kid a few doors down who was desperately sick — with the same symptoms as the Eggelston sisters.

Seems sometime during the day, Ella also administered some Rough on Rats to five-year-old Ervin Garlock.

Whilst doctors worked diligently to save the lives of the three kids — news of Ella’s possibly poisonous food and drink spread like wildfire around the neighborhood of Kohler and Morgan Street. Leading every parent hither, thither, and yon to interrogate their children as to whether they’d eaten anything given to them by Ella.

After Susie, Jennie, and Ervin’s lives were back on solid footing, Dr. Edmunds and Dr. Harris compared notes….and discovered Leona’s symptoms mirrored those of the other poisoned children. Unsurprisingly, the duo of doctors took their suspicions to Justice of the Peace Rogers and Coroner Hardleben — who called Ella in for questioning posts haste.

At first, the fourteen-year-old denied everything.

However, when one of the officials bluffed and told Ella someone had seen her making the cocoa, and they knew she’d put poison in it — she opened her eyes wide and said….“Dear me, is that so?” And went on to make a full confession. Telling the adults she’d poisoned Susie and Jennie: “…because she wanted to go to a funeral, and thought they would look so nice dead.” When they asked after Leona’s murder: “Yes, she’s dead. Poor L{eona} But she looked awful pretty and her funeral was awful nice.” When Justice of the Peace Richard asked why she used Rough on Rats, Ella replied: “If it killed rats and mice it would kill children.”

(Prompting authorities to exhume poor Leona’s body and send her stomach to Dr. Vandenbergh for analysis.)

On July 16, 1892, Ella was charged with murder.….and this is where things get a bit murky.

I know on July 18, 1892, Franklin Holdridge (Ella’s Dad) committed Ella to the care of Father Baker’s Institution at Limestone Hill. I believe the “institution” the papers referenced was a protectory.

(The above picture was printed in an atlas about thirty-five years prior to Ella’s hasty trip to said Institution.)

Protectories are akin to nonreligious reform or industrial schools. They took in all kinds of kids, from orphans to juvenile delinquents — educated them in religion, morals, and science, then trained them in a trade or for a manufacturing position. Whilst not a prison, Father Baker’s protectory would afford far more supervision and possible rehabilitation for a budding poisoner. (It undoubtedly gave Ella space from her obsession because I can’t imagine the nuns or priests in charge would’ve allowed her to attend funerals or visit the graveyard — given her history.)

In any case, this prompt change of address not only kept the children in Ella’s old neighborhood safe, including her much younger siblings, it might’ve also (possibly) given the jury a reason to find her not guilty.

I say possibly because, unfortunately, I can’t find any direct news pieces on Ella’s trial. Save a blurb written just under eight years after the events of July 1892. It states that despite Ella’s confession and testimony in which she reiterated her belief that Leona and the others would “…look well dead…” a “…jury didn’t see fit to punish her.”

Perhaps Ella pleaded insanity? Or, due to her age, her lawyers argued she didn’t understand the enormity of her actions? Or maybe they didn’t want to send a pretty young girl to jail for the rest of her life. I don’t honestly know. However, I suspect it didn’t hurt that of her four victims — Susie, Jennie, and Ervin managed to live through the ordeal she put them through.

I also reckon Ella remained in Father Baker’s care for a spell after her trial, though this is purely conjecture on my part. (Mostly because I can’t see a way for her to return home to Tonawanda after killing a child, no matter the outcome of a trial. Though again, it is possible.)

(Ella, from later in life. From findagrave.com)

However, I do know that by the time Ella was about 24, she was married to a man named Neil McGilvray with a baby daughter on the way. In 1905, they had another daughter. In 1908, the family moved to Monessen, Pennsylvania, where Ella would remain for the next 37 years until her death in 1945 at the age of 65.