On the fifth of August, 1819, Maria Stent arrived from Liverpool at the Saracen’s Head, on Snow Hill. Thence she wrote to her husband, whom she had not seen for nearly a year. Her letter begged his forgiveness, stated that she had returned from America, and implored him on no account to reveal to her parents that she was in England. Her funds were all but exhausted, and she went so far as to ask for a gown from amongst the garments she had left behind. Henry Stent received the missive at Pimlico and made his way to the inn.
This encounter followed a rupture that had begun on the twenty-ninth of August, 1818. Henry, a butcher in Pimlico, was then about eight-and-twenty years of age; Maria, six-and-twenty. They had been married for seven years. The chronicle preserved by Borrow paints their earlier life as one of domestic happiness and openly espouses the husband’s cause. Maria had fled with Thomas Sweeting, their neighbour. Yet in the pages recounting the subsequent assault, her voice emerges through her letter and through the answers she gave before the bench. In them, she sought not merely to return: she asked to be suffered to live in seclusion, without reviving the disgrace of her kindred.
Sweeting had frequented the Stents’ household on the footing of a family friend. When Maria was sent into the country to recruit her health after an illness, he visited her at the house of her husband’s uncle, near Uxbridge. Borrow imputes to him sundry stratagems designed to induce her to depart with him, extending even to two feigned attempts upon his own life, from which he contrived to be rescued. Having returned to London, Maria at length consented to elope. On the eve of their departure, the two households spent the evening together. Whilst Henry was engaged at cards, she is said to have slipped back to her own dwelling to carry off apparel, plate, and money, before rejoining the company. On the morrow, she was gone.
Sweeting left behind a pregnant wife and four children. Three weeks later, according to the chronicle, he returned to demand money of his wife, wresting from her by menaces sixty pounds concealed within her stays. She was delivered of her child shortly thereafter, fell into a violent paroxysm, and died; Henry Stent, called in to assist in securing her in a strait-waistcoat, is said to have received her parting breath in his arms. The newborn infant perished in its turn. These occurrences preceded the trial and have come down to us in the accusing mould of Borrow’s narrative. Around Maria’s absence, they construct a tale of ruined hearths which the chronicler invokes to account for the husband’s fury.
Maria and Sweeting subsequently crossed to France, and thence to America. In her letter, she spoke of tempests and the loss of a vessel during her voyages. She stated that she had landed on the Tuesday morning, had quitted Liverpool that same evening, and had reached London by daybreak. She declared she would be content with bread and water, or a refuge in the workhouse, could she but obtain his pardon. She begged a speedy reply, having had no more than two pounds and five shillings wherewith to reach London. The letter bore one final particular: the hour. That evening, Henry stood before her.
Towards half-past six, according to the servants of the house, Henry passed through the inn door and inquired for the gentlewoman arrived by the Liverpool coach. George King conducted him to a back parlour, ordinarily reserved for passengers. Maria rose to meet him. King forthwith pulled the door to; he heard nothing of what passed between them. In court, Maria placed their meeting somewhat later, between seven and eight o’clock. But the servants were of one mind as to what broke upon their duties: a shriek, then a second, and a third before ever they could reach the chamber.
Thomas Turner entered first, followed by Thomas Pithouse. Turner beheld Maria lying upon her back and Henry kneeling upon her. Catching sight of the knife, he recoiled. Pithouse described an effort by his fellow servant to seize the weapon, followed by a blow directed at Maria’s throat. Turner confirmed this final stroke, though without rendering an identical account of his own movements. Both men had entered soon enough to see the violence continue. Henry dropped the knife and declared he had accomplished his design. He offered no resistance to those who secured him.
Turner told him that by such a deed he had signed his own death-warrant. Henry answered that he was satisfied, and upbraided Maria for her misconduct. Witnesses then related the words of the wounded woman: she acknowledged having wronged him, bestowed her pardon upon him, and begged to kiss him. Pithouse stated that Henry knelt down and kissed her twice. The servants laid her upon a shutter to bear her to St Bartholomew’s Hospital. During the transit, she called for her husband and reached out her hand; one of the bearers took it. She believed she was pressing the hand of Henry.
From the Giltspur Street Compter, Henry wrote to his sister Eliza that he had seen Maria and was in custody. Upon the turn of the sheet, he added: “I have stabbed her,” explaining that he had not wished to set it upon the first page lest it should shock her. He charged Eliza to prepare their parents for the tidings. He added that it was useless for them to come that evening, as none would be admitted; he hoped to see his family on the morrow morning. Maria had prayed that her return be concealed from her kin; Henry now commissioned his sister to announce his imprisonment to theirs. At his trial, he was arraigned for having inflicted diverse wounds upon his wife with intent to murder or to do her some grievous bodily harm. He pleaded not guilty.
Maria was called to give evidence. She begged not to be compelled to speak against “the best of husbands.” The learned judge put such questions as were requisite to establish her identity, her marriage, and her return; she confirmed having departed on the twenty-ninth of August, 1818, and having returned from Liverpool in August, 1819. Being interrogated as to what took place within the room, she declared she retained no recollection whatever of the matter. She remembered only waking in the hospital, wounded in the neck and elsewhere. Counsel for the prisoner drew from her the admission that she was quite overcome upon beholding her husband, and could recall nothing of what ensued. Her testimony did not efface the scenes described by the servants.
Yet the prosecution rested not upon her memory alone. Pithouse and Turner had described the weapon and the final thrust. King, who had introduced Henry, stated the limits of his own observation: he had seen no blow struck, only the bloodstained knife upon the floor. He had left the others beside the pair and run to fetch an officer. Thus the witnesses spoke not to the selfsame fragment of the scene. Their presence enabled the court to trace that which Maria professed herself unable to recount.
The defence called several persons who had long known Henry. They represented him as gentle, humane, generous, and singularly affectionate towards his wife. This character had now to be weighed against those few minutes described by the servants. Maria herself, on taking her stand in the box, had petitioned that she might not be forced to depose against him whom she termed “the best of husbands.” The judge replied that he felt for her distress, but was bound to examine her, and she must answer.
After half an hour’s deliberation, the jury found Henry guilty, but recommended him to mercy on account of his good character. A petition, signed by numerous persons of acknowledged respectability, was addressed to the Prince Regent. His Royal Highness commuted the capital sentence to two years’ imprisonment. The letter that had summoned Henry to the inn had held open the possibility of forgiveness; at the Old Bailey, the encounter was told by those who had rushed into the room.