It's impossible to imagine a more tragic story than Mary Blandy's eighteenth-century case; it was one of love and admiration, most of it misguided, and she would be permanently cataloged in the annals of female criminality due to her naive and ill-judged wishes. Not that Mary Blandy's upbringing was typical of such criminals. She was the daughter of Francis Blandy, a successful lawyer who served as the town clerk of Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire, for many years.
Francis was a lively figure who commanded respect and attention across the parish, and his professional skill guaranteed that he acted for a large number of the local nobility, indicating that he was truly a significant character. Mary, née Stevens, his wife, was adored as well, and was characterized as "an symbol of chastity and purity; lovely in appearance, in thought exalted." These pleasant traits were supposed to have been passed down to the couple's only child, Mary.
Francis Blandy reveled in his growing celebrity as a man of significant money and social status.
The family's house on Hart Street was a pleasant residence with a showy degree of hospitality for any visitors. Mary, the Blandys' adored daughter, thrived in such settings and was lavished upon by her parents, even being home-schooled by her mother, developing a strong interest in reading, something many youngsters in eighteenth-century Britain would not have had the opportunity to experience.
Mary was wise above her years, attaining accomplishments years ahead of her contemporaries.
Physically she was slight and petite, and when the combination of her gifted brain and charm of manner was supplemented by the prospect of an advertised dowry of £10,000 for the man who married her, an inevitable stream of suitors promptly pursued her. Mary was seen as a 'catch' by much of pompous Henley society, and a swarm of cavalier lovers trailed her in the goal of catching her.
Any hope, on the other hand, was quickly replaced with horrified rejection when each of their initiatives was flatly rejected. Mr Blandy was demonstrating his economic acumen in every aspect of his life, including his contacts with his only daughter's future spouse. Full value for money was required, and if it was not available, Mary's hand in marriage appeared to be in jeopardy. Cupid's steady arrow, on the other hand, eventually struck gold in the summer of 1746. The aristocratic circles in which Mary was so naturally appealing would unfortunately prove to be the beginning of the young girl's bleak unraveling, rather than the start of a flourishing and joyful relationship.
One of Mr Blandy's most illustrious acquaintances was General Lord Mark Kerr. Mary first met Captain William Henry Cranstoun, another Lord Mark visitor, while eating with her parents at Lord Mark's house, suitably dubbed 'Paradise.' A Scottish soldier with an uninviting appearance and demeanor, he did not appear to be a suitable companion for Mary at first impression. He was described as tiny, freckled, and 'pitted with smallpox,' and he lacked the grace that Mary exuded. Any shortcomings in these areas, however, were quickly forgotten, especially when Mr Blandy learned that the captain was the fifth son of a Scots noble, William, fifth Lord Cranstoun. This joyful news filled Mary's father with joy, since the desire to marry his daughter to such an honorable person trumped all else, allowing him to gain kindred with many of Scotland's aristocracy.
According to Mary Blandy's recounting of events, it wasn't until the summer of 1747 that this little, ungainly fellow Cranstoun confessed his love for her and expressed his desire to marry her. He made his intentions known to Mr. and Mrs. Blandy, which was a very welcome suggestion. Cranstoun helped assuage any suspicions that he was already married in the proposal, a rumor that had been circulating earlier and caused some anxiety. With these anxieties dispelled, the captain began to enjoy hospitality the Blandy way, as did Mrs Blandy, while a proud father delighted in boastfully proclaiming his daughter's connection with royalty.
Mr Blandy would be launched into a hatred and fury meant for the likes of a transgression against a daughter if the household harmony did not persist. Mary's father learned the sad and humiliating fact that his much-desired son-in-law-to-be was already a married gentleman, with a wife and kid residing in Scotland, after receiving a written letter from Lord Mark. We can only guess how much of old Mr Blandy's annoyance and rage stemmed from the upheaval given to his only kid, as opposed to his own personal shame, but the potential kinship's submission was unmistakable.
Cranstoun married Anne Murray in a private ceremony on May 22, 1744, in Edinburgh. Because Anne and her family were both Jacobites and Roman Catholics, the marriage was kept secret for fear of jeopardizing the 'gallant' Cranstoun's career advancement. Before she returned to her family and the captain resumed his regimental duties in London, the two secretly lived together for a few months. Throughout their uncoupling, the newlyweds communicated regularly by mail, and the newest Mrs Cranstoun gave birth to a daughter in February 1745. This did not elicit any parental feelings in Cranstoun, who instead claimed that Anne had been his mistress and that he had gallantly promised her marriage if she would convert her religion to his own considered "loftier" Presbyterian one. He thought he was free of their engagement since she declined to do so. Anne, on the other hand, was not as eager to accept his deception as he had been in concocting it. At October 1746, she filed a 'declarator of marriage' suit against her deceitful spouse in Edinburgh's Commissary Court, as is customary in Scotland.
Blandy sought a meeting with his devious and roguish visitor, enraged at the manner in which he had fallen victim to Cranstoun's guile. Cranstoun, in contrast to most of his behavior, accepted to the tough grilling he was likely to get from his future father-in-law. Of course, his participation was certainly motivated by his unwavering desire to stake a claim to the dowry, rather than any perceived wrongdoing on his side. Cranstoun declared, "I am not, nor have I ever been!" in response to his supposed marriage. Mrs Blandy was an unusual supporter for Cranstoun, a blinkered lady who grasped at every answer Cranstoun offered. She had yearned for the captain's companionship, and she ultimately persuaded her husband to accept Cranstoun's word, and he – if unwillingly – agreed to maintain the engagement, at least until the outcome of the legal processes was known. Blandy, after all, was hesitant to give up his newly-acquired aristocratic connections, despite the humiliation he had suffered at Cranstoun's hands.
In May 1748, Mrs Blandy's ill-judged affection for the captain, plagued with his peculiar flaws, was to be revealed most forcefully. Mrs Pocock, a family acquaintance, owns Turville Court, which Mary and her mother paid a visit to. Mrs Blandy grew critically unwell during their visit, and it was thought that she would die. 'Let Cranstoun be sent for!' she cried out throughout her lengthy agony. Clearly, she had significantly more trust in Cranstoun to speed up an improbable recovery than most people would. Nonetheless, whether by chance or plan, the captain's presence signaled the sick patient's miraculous recovery. Mrs Blandy now refused to accept medicine from any hand other than Cranstoun's, declaring that she would only be able to heal with him by her side. This experience did little to improve ties between Cranstoun and Mr Blandy, who had also been summoned by his unwell wife and was now particularly irritated by the 'huge money' paid by the hurriedly organized trip to Turville Court.
Mrs Blandy returned to Henley with her family after she was considered well and able to travel again, accompanied by the 'indispensable' captain. Cranstoun stayed at the Blandys' welcoming home once again due to her ongoing illness, the lady of the house feeling that his presence was alleviating her infirmities in some way. Any knowing grin on Cranstoun's face would be wiped clean from his face when the Commissary Court determined Cranstoun and Anne Murray to be man and wife on March 1, 1748, and ordered the captain to provide an annuity to Anne and their daughter. Cranstoun's plotting and persuasion skills, on the other hand, were now on display. He wrote to Anne shortly after leaving his wife, stating that being single was his last hope of getting promoted in the army. As a result, he convinced her to create a letter saying that she was never his wife. She obediently, and maybe stupidly, followed his desires, and upon receiving her letter, Cranstoun was quick to distribute copies to his and his wife's Scottish family, who ostracized and mistreated Anne.
Mr. and Mrs. Blandy were now aware of the Court's ruling on Cranstoun's prior marriages - but Cranstoun denied this as well, stating that the Court had made mistakes and that he had been urged to appeal the decision, which he had done with apparent great success. Of course, the appeal was never heard, and the marriage remained as lawful as Scots Law could make it. Mrs Blandy's health was still failing in the spring of 1749. It was agreed that they would go to London with Mary in the hopes of getting medical guidance to aid her with her long-term ailments. Mrs Blandy's brother lived in the city, and Mary and her ailing mother relished their medical vacation, and her condition improved for a time.
Mrs Blandy's condition, however, deteriorated rapidly upon her return to Henley. The prognosis was dismal on Thursday, September 28th, so the Henley doctor and her two brothers were summoned. Mrs Blandy's death crept closer on the night of September 30th, with her family at her side. Her steadfast confidence in Cranstoun's good faith was demonstrated even then.
'Mary has set her heart upon Cranstoun; when I am gone, let no one set you against the match,' she said to her husband. Mr Blandy would undoubtedly have been irritated by these deathbed remarks. Perhaps he'd feel obligated to honor his wife's final words, or, with Cranstoun's most ardent supporter being laid to rest, might he now persuade his daughter of her lover's devious ways?
Old Mr Blandy's faith in his daughter's marriage to nobility, and all the grandeur that entailed, was eroding on a daily basis. Mr Blandy now bore only a passing resemblance to the effervescent figure that Henley had once embraced, thanks to a dream that was turning into a hallucination and the grief of losing his wife. Cranstoun, well aware of Blandy's contempt for him, needed to end the war – £10,000 was on the line. What he did next would bind his girlfriend in a terrible web from which she would never be able to free herself.
Mrs Morgan was a 'cunning woman known to him from Scotland,' according to Cranstoun. She had given him a 'love powder,' a love philtre that, when eaten, could turn even the most vehement anger into emotions of love and warmth for a specific person. Cranstoun said in Mary's written narrative that if her father took any of this powder, they would'make him adore me,' referring to Mr Blandy. The captain's idealistic vision was scorned by the 'learned' Mary. 'Are you weak enough to believe that any substances have such power?' she inquired. Cranstoun said yes, stating that he had taken some and had quickly forgiven a buddy, something he had no desire or intention of doing at the time. Cranstoun stated one evening, when Mr Blandy was in a very sour mood, that if he had any of these powders, he would 'insert them into something Mr Blandy should drink.'
Cranstoun took advantage of the chance to lace Mr Blandy's tea with these'miraculous' powders in late summer 1750. The elderly lawyer, who had been in a particularly terrible temper at breakfast, seemed considerably improved - in the finest of spirits – at dinner, and remained so for the length of Cranstoun's stay. Surely any lingering doubts about the efficacy of these mystery granules were now dispelled?
Cranstoun departed the lovely parish of Henley for the last time as fall faded and winter arrived. Mr Blandy was adamant that this was going to be the case. He told his daughter to write to her boyfriend, telling him not to bother the Blandys again, at least until his marital problems were 'completely resolved.' The pair realized that as long as Cranstoun's wife Anne alive, he would never be able to marry Mary, despite the fact that the appeal had already been refused. Worse, Cranstoun knew that if the cunning old lawyer discovered the truth, he could, and almost surely would, change the way his inheritance was distributed.
Mary received a letter from Cranstoun in late April or early May 1751, alerting her that he had visited Mrs Morgan and that she would be pleased to provide him with a fresh supply of the powders, according to her own story. He just told Mary to'mix the powder in tea.' Despite her repeated declarations of doubt about such obvious stupidity, Mary's determination weakened at this moment, and she decided to use the philtre. We can only surmise as to what she hoped to achieve, but what is known is that elderly Francis Blandy began to experience excruciating inside discomfort, as well as repeated bouts of illness, from that moment forward. Nobody else in the house became sick save those who drank from Mr Blandy's cup — he had to have his tea served in a "separate dish from the rest of the household." Susannah Gunnell and Ann Emmet, two housemaids, did drink from his cup, and both were gripped with agonizing pain to the point of death.
Cranstoun wrote Mary many letters in mid-July, advising her to use the powder in gruel instead of tea, as tea was evidently ineffective for transporting the powders and extracting the best from them. Mary asked Gunnell to cook a pan of gruel on Sunday, August 4th, after she had recovered from her illness. Mary was spotted stirring something into the pan the next day. A portion was carried up to Mr Blandy in a half-pint cup in the evening. Mr Blandy got very unwell the next morning, and the house was plunged into chaos. Mr Norton, the Henley pharmacist, was summoned, despite the fact that he had no cause to suspect poison at the time; rather, his original diagnosis was colic.
However, something even more evil was about to be revealed. The housemaids were suspicious of the gruel because of its horrific adverse effects. Gunnell looked into the pan's contents and discovered a white granular residue at the bottom. Mrs Mounteney, a long-time family friend, was presented with the pan the next morning after she had hidden it overnight. Mr Norton was summoned once more, and the contents of the pan were taken for inspection.
It's important to recall that, unlike today's forensic inevitabilities, which serve as the foundation for so many criminal prosecutions, forensic work in the eighteenth century was not only in its infancy, but was genuinely embryonic. Indeed, Mary's case is often regarded as the first to include the presentation of medical evidence in a courtroom theater.
Mary's uncle, the Reverend Stevens, came to Hart Street the next morning, Friday, August 9th, after learning of his brother-in-condition. law's Gunnell informed him of the strange events that had taken the master of the mansion by surprise. The reverend pushed the maid to tell Mr Blandy what she knew with the usual earnestness. Thus, amid obvious discomfort and worry, Gunnell entered old Mr Blandy's bedroom at seven o'clock the next morning and delivered the news that would hurt him more than any poison could - that his own amiable and polite daughter was the source of his chronic suffering. His initial skepticism evaporated as he opted to focus on who had given his daughter the poison rather than on his daughter's behavior. This indicates that Blandy could not grasp Mary's ability to commit such a crime. Why would he do that?
His daughter had been the classic model daughter up until this moment, seemingly destined for aristocratic circles. Susannah Gunnell, the housemaid, was categorical in her response on the issue of who had given Mary the poison: Cranstoun. 'Oh, that monster!' said Blandy, struck by the realization that he had become the victim of a plan against him in his own house.
Despite being in excruciating agony, Blandy awoke to confront his daughter, who was eating breakfast and unknowing that her father had learned the terrible truth. Mary brought her father her tea, which he sipped. With his gaze fixed on his daughter, he said that it had a "bad, gritty flavor" and inquired if she had added anything to it. Mary, startled, sheepishly stated that it had been prepared as usual before fleeing the room. Mary ran to her room, clearly in a state of panic and fright, ostensibly to take self-preservation precautions. She grabbed the letters her boyfriend had written her before, as well as any residual powders, and tossed them all into the fire grate. The letters were reduced to ash, but the attentive maids were able to save a little paper package holding a quantity of powder when their mistress had left the kitchen, which they presented to Mr Norton when he called later in the day. Norton saw that Blandy's condition had deteriorated significantly and urged that Dr. Addington, who was well-liked in Reading, be summoned.
At 12 a.m., Addington arrived on Hart Street. The doctor had no doubt Mr Blandy was poisoned based on his examination of the patient and information obtained from Norton. He quickly informed Mary of this, and she inquired as to whether her father had any enemies who may have wanted to cause him such anguish. 'It's not possible! He is at peace with the entire world, and he is at peace with the entire world,' she responded. Dr. Addington stayed at Hart Street until the next morning, when he secretly removed the sediment from the pan and the salvaged parcel from the fire with him. Before he left the house, he told Mary that if her father died, she would 'inevitably be destroyed.'
Mary must have been aware of how perilous her situation had become at this time. This did not deter her from attempting to warn her boyfriend of their shared dilemma, writing to Cranstoun with a strong warning. Mr Blandy's clerk, Robert Littleton, had been forwarding Mary's letters to Cranstoun up until this point, but now, with a cloud of suspicion hanging over Mary, he opened the letter and read it aloud to Mr Blandy: 'Dear Willy, -My father is so awful that I just have time to advise you not to be alarmed if you don't hear from me soon. I am a better person. Take care when writing your letters so that nothing goes wrong. Please accept my heartfelt congratulations. 'I am always yours.' The letter demonstrates that Mary was well aware of the gravity of the situation, but it also reveals her unshakable emotions for the cunning Cranstoun.
Despite the letter's strange and unnerving tone, the sick man could not bring himself to blame Mary, calling her a "poor love-sick girl!" He also claimed that he had forgiven his daughter via tearful sobs. The elderly lawyer, who had always radiated brilliance, was well aware that his end was approaching. His last request, as relayed by Susannah Gunnell, was for Mary to pay him a final visit. Under the careful eyes of both Gunnell and Norton, she was permitted to his chamber. Mary, the most improbable of poisoners, was finally made aware of the incriminating revelations that implicated her so totally in her father's impending death, and those eyes would watch a heartbreaking exhibition of compelling drama. The revelations sent Mary to her knees, asking pardon and swearing never to see or write to Cranstoun again. Was Mary's outpouring of sorrow only a staged performance displaying true regret and remorse, or was it a reaction to the figurative net closing in around her? We can't be positive in this regard, however it's evident that Mr Blandy forgiven his daughter for her acts. 'I forgive thee, my love,' he said, though he wasn't so sure God would do the same for her. 'Sir, I am absolutely innocent of your illness,' Mary pleaded, confessing to putting the powder to the gruel but insisting that 'it was provided to me with another aim.' 'Oh, what a monster!' said the elderly lawyer as he squirmed uncomfortably in his bed upon hearing these comments. Mr Blandy was clearly pointing the finger at Cranstoun.
From this moment on, Francis Blandy's final efforts in life were focused on minimizing any negative consequences that his daughter would face following his death. Mary was ordered to leave his sickroom and'say no more,' by his ever-diligent lawyer and dying father, for fear of incriminating herself with a wrong remark. Blandy's prophylactic efforts were admirable, yet it's doubtful that a man of such legal renown ever truly felt his actions would save Mary. Dr. Addington had embraced scientific procedures at this point and decided that the mystery powder he had investigated was not the harmless 'love philtre' that had been promised. Instead, it was arsenic, the most effective of poisons, confirming the frightening rumors that had been circulating among the maids in Hart Street's kitchen and washrooms.
Mr Blandy's condition had deteriorated to the point where Dr Lewis, a prominent Oxford chemist and physician, was summoned. Dr Lewis quickly confirmed the diagnosis of poisoning and insisted that Mary be confined to her room, warning her that "the affair might come before a court of judicature," and a guard was assigned to her door. Mary would not be subjected to such humiliation for the rest of her life. As she lamented the bleakness of her situation, her father was engrossed in his own fight — for life itself – which he would eventually lose on Wednesday, August 14, 1751.
Mary considered herself "one of the most unhappy orphans who ever existed" when both of her parents died. She appeared to show little regret for her father's murder, but she was in a state of despair over her own position, fully comprehending its gravity - even begging with the house's footman and chef to accompany her. While her two first approaches were both rejected, one of Henley's most refined and gracious ladies was ultimately allowed to go when the guard in charge of Mary loosened his duty — absenting himself while ironically excavating Mr Blandy's grave. Mary spotted her chance and dashed for her freedom.
She had already garnered unwanted attention as she dashed along Hart Street; word of the alleged diabolical plan against one of Henley's most moral gentlemen had spread quickly and been met with genuine rage. Initial chants of "Murderess!" resonated from a small group of youngsters, quickly gathering a larger rabble, and the fugitive was quickly swamped by a baying mob. After breaking loose from the enraged mob, she dashed across the Henley Bridge to the Little Angel Inn, where she sought safety. Mrs Davis, the accommodating landlord, closed the door behind Mary, leaving the outraged crowd outside.
Of course, no matter how enticing the concept had grown, Mary couldn't hide eternally. Richard Fisher, a friend of Mr Blandy's who had lately died, was charged with apprehending the fleeing maiden and transporting her home in a covered carriage to 'protect her from the populace's wrath. Fisher was a senior member of Henley's town council and would later that day be summoned to the hurriedly scheduled inquiry as a jury member. Mr Blandy's body had already been opened for autopsy, with incriminating results for Mary emerging, such was the speed of eighteenth-century justice.
Mr. Edward Nicholas, Henley's surgeon, and Dr. Addington performed the post-mortem. Though an usual gruesome investigation, this one was notable for its discoveries; Addington stated that he had "never encountered or observed a body in which the viscera were so generally inflamed and mortified." The stomach was horribly discolored and inflamed, the intestines were pale and flabby, the lungs were speckled with black patches, and the liver and spleen were both horribly malformed. The end result was unsurprising; it merely confirmed Dr. Addington's previous conclusions that Francis Blandy had died a gruesomely agonizing death as a result of arsenic poisoning. With a cause of death established, the inquest could now focus on determining the details surrounding Mr Blandy's agonizing death.
Richard Miles, the mayor and coroner of Henley, presided over the inquest. The inquest was held at a private home, that of Mr John Gale, on the afternoon of Thursday, August 15th, accommodating thirteen 'decent and lawful men' as the jury that would go some way to determine Mary Blandy's destiny. This was a fate that had probably been sealed even before the Blandy household staff gave testimony, but one that had now been formally befallen Mary Blandy when the verdict found her guilty of poisoning and hence of murdering her own father.
The next day, Richard Miles performed his duty properly and issued the warrant allowing Mary to be transported to the county jail in Oxford. Mary was to be held as a prisoner there until she was 'discharged by due process of law.' Francis Blandy's affliction-ridden body was interred next to his wife in Henley's parish church the same evening. Mary was taken to the jail in the dead of night, which was probably a smart decision given the public outcry that her wanderings through Henley's streets had caused.
Mary's arrival to the penitentiary must have hit her like a ton of bricks, and the contrast between her peaceful existence on Hart Street and her impending incarceration in an enormous and merciless prison could not be starker. Despite her most terrifying worries, Mary's reality would not be that terrifying. Her incarceration was described as "more like a retirement from the world than the custody of a criminal," since it featured her own maid's undivided attention and the nicest quarters available. Tea was consumed twice a day, with evenings spent playing cards; hardly the horrific and punishing program that many others had previously undergone behind its massive walls.
If Mary's first detention had been kind, the Secretary of State directed the county sheriff to "take extra special care of her" on October 25. The command resulted in Mary's instant fettering, something she had dreaded due to the constraining of her delicate ankles. Such a bodily intrusion into Mary's person was a new experience for her and a vivid reminder, if she needed it, of her precarious position, which would be exacerbated by news from a visitor Mary received at the jail. Mary was the only heir to her father's money because he had not written a testament before his death. As we all know, this was widely reported to be in the region of £10,000 — the reality, however, was far lower, at less than £4,000. The awful irony was, of course, that the inflated sum had sparked Cranstoun's orchestration of old Mr Blandy's demise – and, as a result, Mary's now frightening situation. The realization of her predicament prompted a change in the lonely girl's demeanor; gone were the niceties of tea and card-playing, in favor of regular prayer sessions at the prison chapel.
Attempts were made to catch the situation's organiser, but Cranstoun, now displaying as much persuasion as he had persuasion, had long since vanished, leaving his 'beloved' to face the melancholy music he had so deftly composed. Mary Blandy was preparing for an imminent trial in her jail cell as the fugitive basked in his French liberty. She was obsessed by the notion that she may face the worst of punishments. In order to prevent such a destiny, Mary enlisted the help of a Mr Newell, a prominent man who had succeeded her father as town clerk. She did, however, take offense to some harsh remarks made at an early session, with Newell openly expressing his surprise that she had gotten herself involved in a'mean-looking little ugly boy' like Cranstoun. Mary hired an attorney from Woodstock, Mr Rivers, after being humiliated by Newell's remark about her taste in boyfriends.
Newell's departure is unlikely to bother him; Mary's case was dire, and rumors of her guilt abounded by the day, reducing the likelihood of a favorable ending. 'It has been stated that I am a miserable alcoholic, a prophane [sic] swearer, that I never went to chapel, scorned [sic] the holy rites, and in short gave myself up to all forms of immorality,' Mary herself moaned. The rumor mill's activity demonstrated how eagerly this trial was awaited, and when combined with the passion and excitement it elicited in the press at the time, there was no mistake about the public's interest in Mary's case.
As a result, Mary's trial was set to commence on March 3rd, 1752. The Assizes were formerly conducted at the Town Hall, but due to renovations, the principal ceremonial hall of Oxford University, the Divinity Hall, would now host this much-anticipated trial. The large chamber of the Hall was crowded to the full on the first morning, and even open windows provided an opportunity for some determined individuals to catch a sight of the accused. Mary was brought to the bar and given a chair to sit on should she become tired throughout the proceedings, with her maid remaining by her side to assist her if necessary.
The Honourable Heneage Legge and Sir Sidney Stafford Smythe were the judges who decided Mary's fate. The Honourable Mr Bathurst and Mr Serjeant Hayward were assigned to represent the Crown, while Mr Ford handled Mary's defense. Many people saw Mary remained'sedate and composed' as she listened closely to the charges against her. Mary submitted a 'not guilty' plea to the charges, and a jury was dutifully sworn in.
Doctors Addington and Lewis, as well as Mr Norton, the Henley pharmacist, were the first witnesses for the Crown. They were able to prove that arsenic was the cause of Mr Blandy's death, that it was found in his gruel, and that arsenic was the substance that the prisoner had tried to eliminate in the fire grate. Despite the devastating nature of the evidence, Mary maintained the picture of calm at the bar for the most part, her unflappable demeanor disrupted only briefly by witness Mrs Mounteney's testimony. She was Mary's godmother, and as she walked out of the stadium, she took Mary's hand in hers and said, 'God bless you!' Mary's eyes welled up for a brief minute, a brief moment when she must have felt less alone, before quickly returning to her stoic demeanor.
The delivery of following witness declarations would put her commitment to the test even further.
Betty Binfield, one of the cooks, said she overheard Mary irately remark, 'Who would resent sending an elderly father to hell for £10,000?' Susannah Gunnell also offered a thoughtful perspective on Mary's tumultuous connection with her father. 'Sometimes she wanted for his long life, and other times she longed for his death,' the maid explained. The contents of the intercepted letter Mary sent for Cranstoun were subsequently revealed after these fairly startling testimony. Mary's precarious situation had become much more precarious. As a result, the Crown's case had come to an end.
Mary's defense counsel faced an impossible assignment, but for the time being, their efforts were put on hold: Mary was allowed to make a speech first. It's unclear if her counsel prepared it or Mary wrote it — she was certainly skilled. She spoke with eloquence, but did not go so far as to contradict the facts presented before her, insisting that she was "as innocent as the unborn child of my father's killing."
Mary also stated categorically that she "truly felt the powder was a benign, inoffensive item." Mary had undoubtedly added the powder, but the jury would have to decide whether she did it deliberately or accidentally. Nobody in the Divinity Hall underestimated the significance of the answer to this question. Mary listened closely to the witnesses summoned by her defense attorney after she finished her own presentation to the court. Eight people had been chosen, and several of them had given her glowing character recommendations. Maybe these rays of optimism gave Mary a glimmer of hope, confined as she was behind the bar and weighed down by her feeling of injustice, but she needed more. Mr Ford requested an audience with the prison chaplain, Reverend Swinton, in the hopes of highlighting Mary's good behavior while inside. Unfortunately, the honorable judges dismissed the motion, stating that no more evidence of Mary's character was required.
The crowd had been riveted by the trial, which had now lasted thirteen hours. Now was the time for the jury to realize the gravity of their role in the play they had just seen. They were the procession's leading actors, and their role was explained to the audience as follows: If she appears to be innocent on that evidence, in God's name, let her be acquitted; but if she appears to be guilty on that evidence, I am confident you will do justice to the public and acquit your own consciences.
Mr Baron Legge's examination of the evidence and entire demeanor during the trial were magnificent displays of his "ability, impartiality, and kindness." Observing that Mr Blandy had been poisoned in the bar – which was clear – he reminded the jury of their future task: 'What you are to try is reduced to this one question, whether the prisoner knew it was poison at the time she gave it to her father, and what impact it would have?'
Finally, the judge's question was not difficult for the jury to answer, in fact, it was scarcely ponderable. Without taking a break, a five-minute consultation resulted in a guilty verdict. Mary remained still.
Judge Legge, who was well-versed in such high-pressure situations, solemnly donned the black sentence hat over his ceremonial wig and delivered those shudderingly predictable words:
‘That you are to be carried to the place of execution and there hanged by the neck until you are dead; and may God, of His infinite mercy, receive your soul.’
The time had passed nine o'clock in the evening. Mary had stood there for thirteen hours, unflinchingly watching this most unusual of events occur. It had come to the conclusion she dreaded the most, yet the young woman showed no symptoms of fear or stress. 'My Lord, as your lordship has been so gracious to demonstrate so much candour and fairness throughout the course of my trial, I have one more favour to seek; that is, that your lordship would please grant me a little time till I can settle my affairs and make my peace with God,' she begged to her judge. 'To be sure, you shall have a suitable time granted you,' Judge Legge answered tenderly, belying the events of the day. As a result, the great tragedy that had riveted Henley and beyond came to an end. A calm serenity had replaced the frantic and noisy courtroom.
The final act, however, was yet to come. Between the evening of her conviction and her death, Mary had roughly five weeks. During this difficult period, she was able to fulfill her wishes of resolving any lingering matters and making peace with God. She also wrote several letters from her cell, the most fascinating of which was to a fellow prisoner who was also facing execution.
From 7 January through 19 March 1752, Mary and Elizabeth Jefferies corresponded, the former claiming her innocence throughout, while Jefferies acknowledged her culpability in the death of her uncle to Mary. Elizabeth Jefferies was executed on March 28, 1752, in Epping Forest, Essex. Embarrassingly, she took nearly fifteen minutes to die, suffocating in agony till the end.
Only a few days later, Mary Blandy would join the pantheon of murderesses across history's annals of crime and punishment. The date of her death had been planned for Saturday, April 4th, but she was granted a literal – if brief – stay of execution at the request of University officials, who stated that a hanging during Holy Week would be unholy. As a result, Mary will meet her maker on Monday, April 6th, however it is unknown where this will take place. According to many accounts, Oxford's Castle-yard had the dubious 'honor' of seeing Miss Blandy's death.
Mary spent the evening before her execution in silent prayer. The solemn formalities began at half past eight on Monday, April 6th, after an obviously sleepless night. At the jail, the sheriff, Mary's lawyer, Mr Rivers, and the chaplain, Reverend Swinton, came. Mary was taken out into the castle yard by the priest for a little moment of thought before being met by the sheriff's soldiers and her executioner. She was taken to her execution solemnly dressed in a 'black crape bag.' Mary had shown unwavering fortitude and an unbreakable spirit up to this time. The gallows, however, is a "stern test of creativity," and she did not flinch when she saw the menacing heavy wooden beam hastily put between two trees in front of an organized throng of motionless onlookers on the Castle Green. She addressed the interested bystanders, reasserting her testimony that she was 'absolutely innocent as to any purpose to harm or even damage my loving father; that I did not know, or even suspect, that the lethal powder I gave him had any toxic nature.'
Mary gave the hangman two guineas, as was typical at the period - a grim and frightening irony that she should pay for his'service' – but this was to guarantee that a 'professional' service was provided. The alternative may be a long and agonizing death by strangling, similar to what Elizabeth Jefferies went through only nine days before. Mary Blandy had to climb a ladder to reach the unoccupied and expectant noose dangling from the temporary gallows, and she stated, 'I am scared I may fall.' As she reached the fifth rung of the ladder, Mary Blandy whispered her dying words, 'For the love of decency, guys, don't hang me high.'
This gesture to her humility and reluctance was notable in the moments leading up to her death. Any concerns about the upcoming launch into eternity seemed to pale in comparison to her concern that any of the collected contingent's young men could glimpse up her skirt. Her handkerchief was pulled down over her face and the halter was fastened around her neck. Her wrists were bound in front of her body so she could grasp her prayer book; it had been agreed that if Mary dropped the prayer book, the hangman would know she was ready. The ladder was turned over as Mary released the book, and Mary fell asleep, dying 'without a struggle' — the guineas given to the hangman appearing to have been well spent.
Despite the customary rowdy behavior at such events, the crowd – estimated at 5,000 - mourned and grieved in the tangible sense of quiet. Despite the fact that such brutal spectacles were supposed to prevent crime and demonstrate that justice had won, onlookers would typically be ecstatic and cheer heartily in support as the offender was dangled on the end of the rope. On this particular day, however, the spectacle created a somber atmosphere, one that even a blackbird joined in, perched atop Mary's beam as her life dwindled away; according to local legend, the place has not since heard a blackbird sing its melody.
Mary's body was left dangling for thirty minutes, with her feet almost touching the ground, as was customary. The arrangements following Mary's death were in stark contrast to the manner in which she was executed. There was "no casket to place her body in, nor hearse to transport it away" when her body was chopped down. Instead, she was flung over the shoulder of one of the Sheriff's men and carried 'in the most hideous fashion' past the hordes of onlookers, her legs indecently exposed. While her dying words were a heartfelt appeal to maintain modesty, she was exposed to exactly what she had feared: a graceless and terrible display of indignity observed by hundreds upon her death.
On April 7, the Reverend William Stockwood presided at Mary's interment at Henley's Parish Church. She was given more than other condemned criminals, who would not typically be buried within church bounds, because she was interred between the graves of her mother and father. A scant eight months after Mary's burial, the inciter of the entire story — Cranstoun – would be laid to rest in a considerably more extravagant and spectacular manner. He outlived his fallen 'beloved' by only eight months after exiling himself with the goal of ungallantly letting Mary to face trial alone. These months were far from the relaxing ones he had envisioned; instead, he was tiptoeing around the French countryside, hoping to avoid detection and, eventually, imprisonment. Those who subscribe to such beliefs may readily believe that divine vengeance is at work here, as Cranstoun died of a violent 'bout of sickness.' His anguish lasted nine days, after which his miseries were so agonizing that he 'expired in profound agonies' on November 30, 1752, and was deemed 'raving insane.'
Cranstoun's burial was attended by the town's dignitaries on December 2nd, amid considerable ceremony. If they had been entirely aligned with the reality of the noble captain's background, his corpse may have been subjected to a considerably less solemn end. Despite the fact that Mary Blandy's deathbed words and moments have become legend, it is said that her soul has yet to rest. There are other accounts of her apparition haunting her hometown of Henley, which adds another dramatic strand to this most interesting of tales.
Whatever the reality is about such 'beyond the dead' encounters, Mary Blandy's story continues to fascinate and provoke discussion. Was she a modest murderess, or was she merely a naive person who had put her trust in the wrong man?