The actress, the MP and the chamber pot murder. It almost sounds like the title of a work of fiction but, in fact, as Vivienne Smith reveals, it describes a tragic true story partly played out in Matlock and Derby.
IN the early 1960s, Margaret Rutherford portrayed the fictional sleuth Miss Marple on the big screen. Yet few but her closest family were aware that the endearing British character actress lived in the shadow of a murder in real life. In a fit of insanity, Margaret’s dad had killed his own father.
The tragedy had taken place in Matlock in the 1880s. The actress’s paternal grandfather was Julius Benn, a Congregational minister well-known in the East End of London for his work among the poor.
Her father was his third son, William Rutherford Benn, who worked as a shipping clerk in the City. In December 1882, aged 27, he married his sweetheart, Florence Nicholson. Unfortunately, the couple’s life together was far from wedded bliss.
No sooner had they tied the knot than the young man began suffering bouts of “unusual excitement and irritability” coupled with depression. He took extended leave from work, but to no avail.
At the end of January 1883, on the advice of the family doctor, William was admitted to Bethnal House, a private asylum in East London.
Within a few weeks, his condition had so improved it was decided he was well enough to leave.
His doctor recommended a change of scenery to speed his recovery. Hoping the invigorating air of the Peak would do the trick, Julius Benn took his son to the famous health resort of Matlock.
The two arrived at Matlock Bridge by train on Tuesday, February 27.
They took rooms at The Cottage in Chesterfield Road, owned by retired coachman George Marchant and his wife, Mary Ann. When Julius asked that their names should not be published in the Matlock Visitors’ Register, as was then the custom, the couple were unconcerned.
Their new lodgers were undoubtedly respectable. From his appearance, it was clear Julius Benn was a minister and he was very attentive to his son’s welfare. As for the young man, although quiet and somewhat melancholy, he appeared to have the manners of a gentleman.
Indeed, Mrs Marchant was apparently so taken with their guests that she placed the blue Staffordshire chamber pot which had belonged to her late grandmother under Julius’ bed.
Father and son spent their first few days in Matlock visiting places of interest in the neighbourhood.
On Thursday they took the train to Buxton and walked back through Miller’s Dale. On Friday they admired the views from Riber Castle before visiting the caverns at Matlock Bath.
The young man told his landlady he had particularly enjoyed the latter. Their longest day was
Saturday, when they were out until 9pm. Having climbed the Heights of Abraham, William and his father proceeded to Cromford and then made their way back on foot, via Matlock Bath.
When they got back to their lodgings, the young man collapsed on the sofa, saying he was very tired.
Both men had a light supper and, soon afterwards, retired to bed.
Around 7am on Sunday morning, as the Marchants were getting dressed, they heard a noise like someone rapping on the wall.
Mrs Marchant assumed it was her 80-year-old mother, who also lived in the house. On previous mornings their lodgers had come down promptly at 8am, so she began to make breakfast. At 8.30am, after her husband had left for chapel, the landlady went upstairs and knocked on their door.
She announced: “Breakfast is ready, Sir.” But the only response was a subdued murmur. Well aware the son took an opiate in order to sleep at night, Mrs Marchant assumed he was still deep in slumber, especially after the exertions of the day before.
By noon her guests had still not stirred, so she took them a cup of tea and some letters. Placing them on the mat outside the door, she knocked again but heard only a noise that sounded like “hush”.
When her husband came back from chapel an hour later, she sent him upstairs to investigate.
Knocking on the door, he called: “Is there anything amiss?” Slowly the door swung open to reveal a dreadful sight. There stood William Benn still in his nightshirt, which was spotted with blood. Without saying a word, he turned and pointed to his father lying on the bed. The old man’s skull was smashed in. The bedclothes were stained with blood and there were pools of blood on the floor; even the walls and ceiling were splattered.
A horrified Mr Marchant quickly shut the door and ran downstairs as fast as he could. He dragged his wife and elderly mother-in-law outside into the yard. The sons of a neighbour were sent immediately to get help.
The local GP, Dr William Moxon, soon arrived on the scene, accompanied by PC Smith and Sgt Gee. Together they went upstairs. William Benn stared at them all vacantly, with a peculiar look in his eyes. The doctor noticed he had a wound on his throat and persuaded him to sit while he stitched it up.