The writer had done some research, and he quoted some recent cases. He continues:

This week a woman complained of her husband, to whom she had been married for thirty years. He was seen to drag her by the hair along the garden of their house, to beat her with all his force on the head and face, and to tear the hair from her head by the handfuls.

Sadly, such scenes were common in the Liverpool of this period. Research has shown that reported violence in the last half of the nineteenth century was very high, and, astounding to report, police violence against women was high too: forty per cent of the alleged victims of police violence were women. But the usual tale in the newspapers was of a man in his drink, out of control, attacking his wife. The fact that a man was handy with his fists would have been a positive image for him in the community in some places, but when that was turned on women, the situation changes radically.

Take the case of Richard Spencer, a fishmonger. He lived with a woman called Liz Wharton, very much younger than he. In 1872 the business was in trouble and they had to move into private housing in Everton. Things had come to a sorry state, but Liz had no idea how low her man had sunk, and that his depression (as we might see it today) changed his character. She woke up one day to find him talking about a suicide pact. He started beating her around her head. Wisely, she ran off and stayed some time with a friend.

Her return to Spencer before she had checked that he had calmed down was a bad mistake; he was waiting for her, gun in hand, and with a head wound. He shot her, and Liz took three days to die. Spencer was another customer for Calcraft on the gallows. We have no record as to whether or not there were any mistakes this time.

Then we have the cases of sudden rage: Peter Cassidy in Bootle, a man who came home drunk and was out of control arguing with his equally drunken wife. This mild and good-natured man turned into a raging beast and attacked his wife with a mallet and a cleaver. Cassidy was a tinsmith, a useful tradesman to have around, but after this horrible deed, he was destined to be just the fifth customer of the new hangman, Bradford-born James Berry. Berry noted in his diary that he found this ‘a difficult case’ because he was not sure whether the man warranted pity or blame. The execution was recalled by the new executioner with a sense of reverence and respect for the killer:

He walked to the scaffold with a free, firm stride … On the scaffold he entered into the Roman Catholic service, which Father Bonte was reading, repeating the responses firmly and fervently. In fact, he was so engrossed in the service that I do not think he knew that I had pinioned his legs. He continued in his prayers as I adjusted the white cap over his eyes ….

The man who had brutally slain his wife now ‘blushed crimson to the very roots of his hair’ as he left this world.

In 1885, not long before Christmas, George Thomas, a sailor, was enjoying a drink in Toxteth with a lady of the night, one Mary Askins. Mary was trying to say goodbye to him and move on, but he would have none of that. He ordered some drinks, and the waiter left to fetch these, when Thomas suddenly pulled a gun and shot Mary in the head. He then tried to do the same to himself, but failed to take his life. He lived to face trial, and then to face James Berry. There was no doubt that this was a tale of wilful murder. The sailor had pawned his possessions the day before, in order to buy the gun. This time, Berry had no notes to make from the scaffold. It was just another day for him, with another killer sent to meet his maker.