The Murder of Charlotte Dymond: 18 year-old Charlotte Dymond was a milkmaid at Lower Penhale Farm, Bodmin, she was described at the time as ‘the belle of Bodmin, buxom and pretty’. She would flirt outrageously with the young men in the area, never thinking of the consequences or danger she could herself into by the resounding jealousy many of them felt. One such jealous admirer was Matthew Weekes, a 22 year-old labourer who worked on the same farm. Weekes had had a crush on Charlotte for many years; some say he had been infatuated with the girl for six years, making her only 12 when she came to his attention, which, if true, give us an insight into his state of mind. However, having only a few teeth, a pronounced limp, and a face hideously pockmarked, he knew his chances with Charlotte were almost nil. The more Charlotte innocently flirted and teased the village men, the more Weekes became incensed. On Sunday, 14th April 1844, Weekes decided to ask her out, he plucked up the courage and suggested they go for walk and to his surprise she accepted. They took the path to Lanlavery Rock, on the far slopes of Rough Tor, and then along the road to Camelford. Charlotte never returned and her body was found two weeks later. Weekes was arrested and soon confessed to the murdering the girl. He said: “I told her I had seen her in a situation with some young men that was disgraceful to her. She then said, ‘I shall do as I like. I shall have nothing more to do with you.’ “I took out my knife and then replaced it. But on her repeating the phrase, I made a cut at her throat from behind. She immediately fell backwards, the blood gushing out in a large stream, and exclaimed while falling, ‘Lord have mercy on me!’ “While she was on the ground I made a second but much larger cut, although she was almost dead at that time. After standing over her body for about four or five minutes, I lifted up one of her arms and it fell to the ground as if she were dead. I pushed her body a little further down a bank. I took her bonnet, shawl and shoes and covered them up in a turf pit. I put her gloves and bag in my pocket and threw away the knife.” He was tried at Bodmin’s Shire Hall, found guilty and sentenced to death for her murder. Matthew Weekes was hanged on this day 12th August 1844, outside Bodmin Prison. It was a Monday. Later, the villagers paid for a monument to be erected on the spot where Charlotte died. Legend has it that she haunts the murder scene, and that her ghost is often seen, too, at Lower Penhale Farm. Below is a ballad written by Charles Causley dedicated to Charlotte: The Ballad of Charlotte Dymond It was a Sunday evening And in the April rain That Charlotte went from our house, And never came home again. Her shawl of diamond red cloth, She wore a yellow gown, She carried a green gauze handkerchief She bought in Bodmin town. About her throat her necklace And in her purse her pride As she walked out one evening Her lover at her side. Out beyond the marshes Where the cattle stand, With her crippled lover Limping at her hand. Charlotte walked with Matthew Through the Sunday mist, Never saw the razor Waiting at his wrist. Charlotte she was gentle But they found her in the flood Her Sunday beads among the reeds Beaming with her blood. Matthew, where is Charlotte And wherefore has she flown? For you walked out together And now are come alone. Why do you not answer, Stand silent as a tree, Your Sunday woollen stockings All muddied to the knee? Why do you mend your breast-pleat With a rusty needle’s thread And fall with fears and silent tears Upon your single bed? Why do you sit so sadly Your face the colour of clay And with a green gauze handkerchief Wipe the sour sweat away? Has she gone to Blisland To seek an easier place, And is that why your eye won’t dry And blinds your bleaching face? “Take me home!” cried Charlotte, “I lie here in the pit! A red rock rests upon my breasts, And my naked neck is split!” Her skin was soft as sable, Her eyes were wide as day, Her head was blacker than the bog That licked her life away. Her cheeks were made of honey, Her throat was made of flame Where all around the razor Had written its red name. As Matthew turned at Plymouth About the tilting Hoe, The cold and cunning Constable Up to him did go: “I’ve come to take you, Matthew, Unto the Magistrate’s door. Come quiet now, you pretty poor boy. And you must know what for.” “She is pure,” cried Matthew, “As is the early dew, Her only stain it is the pain that round her neck I drew!” “She is guiltless as the day She sprang forth from her mother. The only sin upon her skin Is that she loved another...” They took him off to Bodmin, They pulled the prison bell, They sent him smartly up to Heaven And dropped him down to Hell. All through the granite kingdom And on its travelling airs Ask which of these two lovers The most deserves your prayers. And your steel heart search, Stranger, That you may pause and pray For lovers who come not to bed Upon their wedding day. But lie upon the moorland Where stands the sacred snow Above the breathing river, And the salt sea-winds go.
Posted on: Mon, 12 Aug 2013 04:49:54 +0000
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