¿Me Perdonas?

The Strange Murder of Anastasia Trowbridge

Jul 21, 2023

The end of term is upon us. All my children have descended upon the house, ravenous and bored. So bored! Gone are the days when they were entertained by simply hurling anything I had carefully arranged on shelves to the floor. Now one of them wants to be on his laptop 23 hours a day, and another wishes to be FREE, to roam the streets with his mates with an unending supply of snacks for when he DEIGNS to come back to the house. The youngest is happiest left alone with some paper…
Maybe I could employ them as mini research assistants, but they flee if I suggest they help me in any way. So, perhaps not.

And this means that this is my last Friday Murder for several weeks. I will sneak one out in August, but I think my children deserve at least a couple of weeks of mum NOT reading about hideous death, and ignoring them in favour of writing.

We are in Wiltshire once more this week…

Anastasia Read was born in Donhead St Mary, probably in 1799. Her name means resurrection and was very unusual at the time in England: she was known as Ann.

Ann married George Trowbridge in Donhead St Mary in 1826. George was a woodman, employed by Thomas Fraser Grove of Ferne House. The couple lived in a house south of Ferne Park, in Ashcombe Wood. They were a handsome couple, tall and strong. They had no children, and as a result, were thought to have a fair bit of money tucked away in their house.

On 3rd November 1859, George and Ann had breakfast together before he left for work. He told her he’d be home around 1pm, slightly later than usual. Then he went to fix some roads with two other men, about half a mile from their cottage.

He came home for lunch, as promised, and couldn’t get in. He looked for the key, which Ann left under the window if she went out. It wasn’t there. He didn’t mention noticing the pool of blood by the front door. He went to the back of the house, and saw Ann’s legs, but not the rest of her. He broke the window to get in, and found his wife sitting against the wall, murdered in the most dreadful manner. A saw was by her body, and in his shock, he hung it back up. Then he went to fetch help, describing how he’d thrown back the door staple to get out. He stood at the gate, screaming for help

“Oh dear! Do ye come to me! My poor wife is dead!”

Once he got the attention of his neighbour, he went back to Ann and held her against himself, despite her terrible wounds. He was still holding her half an hour later when the surgeon arrived from Donhead St Andrew.

Mr Grove himself came to the house, along with a surgeon, and they examined the scene. It appeared that Ann had been doing her normal morning tasks: some turnips were boiling on the fire, and some potatoes were prepped to go in. She was ironing, and one of the irons was in the fire heating up. It appeared that she’d gone to the door and been attacked by whoever had knocked. A broken cup on the floor suggested she’d taken a cup of water to whoever had knocked.

The person who attacked her did so with a terrifying brutality, considering Ann’s age. The first cut was made with a razor, apparently waved in her face, cutting her ear off. Ann was tall and strong, and seized the razor, cutting her hands to the bone. The razor snapped: it was found in two pieces. Her attacker then picked the saw up from where it hung on the wall, beat Ann with it and then cut through her face twice, sawing through her eyes, nose and mouth, sawing into her brain. Several of the wounds were inflicted post-mortem. Nobody heard her die, and it’s likely she never had a chance to scream.

The inquest was held in the gamekeeper’s house, a neighbour of George and Ann’s, the following day. George was remarkably composed when he gave his evidence, still wearing a jacket smeared in Ann’s blood, and told the coroner that some of his clothing was missing. One blue coat in particular was given to George by the Sturminster Agricultural Society in recognition of his long service. It wwas large and long, because George was tall, and had distinctive buttons bearing the society’s logo. No money was taken following the murder.

The inquest jury returned a verdict of wilful murder by person or persons unknown, and a manhunt began.

The manhunt didn’t take very long. A description was placed in the Hue and Cry. First, one of George’s stolen waistcoats was sold to a labourer in a nearby claypit. The seller also tried to sell the blue coat, with the buttons torn off. This seller was arrested in Hythe, some forty miles away, on 11th November.

His name was Serafin Manzano, he was about thirty, and he was Spanish. He was a tramp, and he generally went to isolated houses to beg for water and bread. Three days before Ann was killed, she’d given him some bread and potatoes. He limped, sometimes he appeared to be unable to speak, and he was described as having a speech impediment. On the day of the murder, he was spotted by a shepherd’s boy walking away from the Trowbridges’ house. On the day he was apprehended, he was aboard a steam boat, heading to France. He was clad entirely in clothing stolen from the Trowbridge house. It was believed that he had hidden himself during the day and travelled by night to escape detection. Some of his clothes had blood on and he had a recent cut on his finger.

On Monday 14th November, he was taken before the magistrates in Lyndhurst. He said he did not understand what he was being charged with, and that he had exchanged his clothing with a Polish man newly arrived from Boulougne. He was taken to Hindon in Wiltshire, and examined by the magistrates there on the 16th. Here, he was identified by multiple witnesses as the man they’d seen around Donhead when Ann was killed.

Serafin told the court he could not speak English, he was a former soldier, and that he had been in Wales for the past fourteen months. He was able to write his name legibly when asked. The magistrates decided to apply for a Spanish translator from the Home Office (somewhat baffling that nobody had thought to do this before) but heard evidence so they could decide whether or not to remand him. George testified that Serafin was dressed entirely in his stolen clothing. Six neighbours testified that Serafin had been to their house begging food in the week before the murder - strangers were noticed in this area - but none could agree on his English fluency. Serafin was remanded, the Spanish consul was to be informed, and a translator found.

On 23rd November, Serafin appeared in court again, now with a solicitor - Mr Chitty - engaged by the Spanish minister. A Mr Steel from the Spanish consul was present. Everyone waited for the Home Office appointed interpreter to arrive. And waited. And waited.

Eventually, the decision was made that Mr Steel could interpret. Serafin chose not to question the witnesses directly, but asked Mr Chitty to do so for him. Mr Chitty proceeded to ask George a series of terribly upsetting questions, until he was told to stop by the chairman of the magistrates.

The interpreter turned up at 3:50pm, having gone to Wilton railway station instead of Tisbury, and took over from Mr Steel. The evidence concluded, primarily evidence of people having seen Serafin with various clothes of George’s, and Mr Chitty, swollen with pride after being asked to act by the Spanish government, made a statement. He said there was no evidence Serafin committed the murder at all, and therefore he should be discharged. After seven and a half hours in a packed courtroom, the magistrates disagreed with Mr Chitty and committed Serafin to a trial for murder and robbery.

But Mr Chitty made an interesting point. Whoever killed Ann would have been saturated in blood, and whoever killed Ann did not take the rings from her fingers.

Serafin waited for trial at Devizes prison, a cheerful man who was visited by various hispanophones. One man, staying with family in Devon, went to visit him for a chat. Serafin asked the man for pictures of the Madonna and Jesus, but this Protestant man refused. Instead, he told Serafin to read Isaiah 53.

As a Spaniard, Serafin was eligible for a jury de medietate linguae, meaning to be tried by a jury comprised of six Englishmen and six foreign-born men. However, finding six competent non-English jurors in rural Wiltshire was likely to be an issue, and there was talk of Serafin standing trial at the Old Bailey instead. In the event, the right jurors were found and his trial opened in Devizes on 27th March 1860. A model of the cottage and its surrounding area was placed at the front of the courtroom, commissioned by the defence.

The prosecution opened by pointing out that murder was rarely a crime in which direct “or ocular” evidence presented itself. The evidence was circumstantial, but compelling. The defence counsel cross examined all the witnesses aggressively: one witness told the court that George had blood on him from holding his wife, and the counsel replied “I asked you the fact, woman, and not how he got [the stains]”. The defence seemed determined to suggest that George had killed his wife, or that another foreign vagrant known as French Peter had done it. Mr Shettle, the police-appointed surgeon, testified that he thought Ann had been stabbed and knocked down in the passage, and then dragged through to the kitchen and killed with the saw. Dr Shettle did not think Serafin was strong enough to have done this. Dr Shettle also thought it was strange that George had climbed through such a tiny hole in the window, although George had demonstrated doing this for the surgeon.

But a steady stream of witnesses, who identified Serafin chiefly from his distinctive hat and gait, placed Serafin in the neighbourhood at the time of the murder, and disposing of his own filthy clothes, and some of the stolen clothes in the days afterwards.

The trial was paused for the night, after Dr Shettle’s evidence. The case resumed at 9am the next morning. The defence wanted to allow Serafin to speak, something the judge was against. The judge consulted with the judge overseeing the Nisi Prius courts, and decided to allow Serafin to speak.

Serafin’s story was that he had, on a Thursday night of unspecified date in an unspecified place, slept in a shed with a man and woman. The woman had an infant with her. The man had swapped clothes with Serafin and when Serafin awoke at 5am, he was alone. The couple had left some clothes behind, which Serafin then sold.

The defence counsel then summed up the case, blaming xenophobia for the case, and condemning the police for publishing a photo of Serafin with a policeman’s hand upon his shoulder when appealing for information. It was probably French Peter who had done it, a beggar well known in those parts with a wife and child.

The judge agreed with the defence about the photograph, and told the jury that they must not convict if they thought there was the slightest chance someone else killed Ann.

The jury took half an hour to find Serafin guilty.

The judge passed the death sentence, telling Serafin through the interpreter that he had no doubt it was the correct verdict:

It is beyond the possibility of belief that the story you have told this day is true. Whether that story was manufactured for you or not I know not, but it is about as absurd a one as was ever laid before a jury.

When the sentence was translated to Serafin, he was prostrated with shock.

His execution was set for 11th April, and was to be held in public. Devizes had changed their execution day from Thursday (market day) to Wednesday, but a vast crowd was still expected. Attempts were made to convert Serafin to the Anglican faith, but he remained devoutly Roman Catholic. The Spanish consul attempted to secure a reprieve, but the jury - a jury composed of half foreign-born men - refused to support the application. Another attempt to call a mistrial, based on a failure to translate the verdict or sentence to Serafin in court, also came to nothing.

Serafin did not publicly confess, and denied the crime to his priest. He continued to claim he was innocent, writing letters to the prison governor. As he reached the scaffold, constructed in front of Devizes prison, he asked the crowd of around eight thousand:

¿Me perdonas?

This was translated, and the crowd responded: yes.

The priest who accompanied Serafin to the scaffold made William Calcraft hold off pulling the lever until he had finished administering the last rites. This done, Serafin Manzano plunged into oblivion, crucifix in hand.

One thing that makes nineteenth-century murder difficult to process for the modern mind is the lack of forensic evidence. A modern court would be able to find Serafin’s fingerprints (or not) on the razor, on the door, on the drawers, on the saw handle. They would be able to prove if the blood on his clothing was Ann’s. They may even find his DNA among the blood. CCTV might provide photographs of Serafin in the area. Computerised financial transactions could be used to track his movements from the woods to Hythe.

Instead, the prosecution was built on circumstance. Serafin was identified as being in the area immediately before the murder and immediately afterward. A solid chain of witnesses testified to his movements, selling the clothing, moving toward Southampton and escape. And he was wearing George’s clothes. Serafin stood before him in the magistrates court, wearing his boots, his hat in hand. Serafin’s claim that he’d swapped the clothes with this random couple was impossible to prove, and so vague that the judge dismissed it out of hand.

Attempts to build up a lifestory for Serafin were contradictory. He told one man he was an orphan, and another that he had no reason to suspect his parents were dead. He was probably born in 1830, in Badajoz. He claimed to be have been raised by an old woman, by the church, or by his shoemaking father. He consistently said he’d served in the army, saying he fought for Don Carlos against the Spanish government. He said he’d been expelled from the country, but also said that he had been captured by the French, and he spent several years in France working as a labourer. He claimed to have come to England in 1855 or 1858. These were not all faults of translation: he told a different story to every visitor, with a smile on his face.

It later emerged that his name was Tomás Rodríguez, the son of wealthy parents, and well-educated. His father was no shoemaker, but owned two silver mines.* At eighteen, his parents disowned him for stealing sheep (one hundred sheep, a LOT OF SHEEP), and he joined the army on the side of Don Carlos soon after. He was captured, expelled from Spain and sent to France. He was arrested when he tried to return home, and returned to France, under guard. He escaped again, but on realising he would never manage to get back into Spain, he obtained a fake passport and went to Wales. In Wales, he was dismissed from a string of jobs for petty theft. This apparently genial, mild-mannered man had also been in the habit of threatening to kill anyone who thwarted him in Wales.

Tomás had no need of money: he wrote letters in prison telling his parents how to dispose of his estate, and bragged of his family’s wealth in other letters. He was a mild, gentle man to those who knew him, but a man with a background in active military service; a man who required guarding in France at one time; a man who could not resist theft and who quickly turned to violence when cornered. A man who ran away: when captured, he was heading to Southampton and after that, the continent.

But did he kill Anastasia Trowbridge? Did he lunge at her face with a razor, cut off her ear, drag her through her house, throw her against a wall, and then saw into her head, continuing with a terrifying ferocity after she was dead?

And if so, how did he get clean?

If not him, then whom? How many people in George Trowbridge’s clothes were running around Wiltshire in November 1859? A few weeks after the execution, French Peter and his partner were overheard having an argument in Warminster in which she accused him of murdering Mrs Trowbridge. This was reported as fact in several newspapers, although not followed up: French Peter’s full name is not given. Nevertheless, this area of Wiltshire clearly worried that they had executed the wrong man.

We can never know, and accepting that we can never know is an important aspect of justice history. We can postulate and hypothesise and wonder, but we can never know, and we should never claim that we can.

Anastasia, Ann, was sixty years old, an industrious woman, keeping clean, busy and active as she approached old age. She died a terrifying, abrupt and painful death. Her husband never remarried, and died in 1867.