The World, 24 June 1923
KENSINGTON TRIPLE TRAGEDY
COMPOSER KILLS HIS WIFE, ANOTHER,
COMMITS SUICIDE
OPERA WILL NOT OPEN
A double murder followed by the suicide of the perpetrator has taken place in a cul- de- sac off Kensington High Street. Jealousy is the principal motive for the crime.
The police were summoned at two o'clock yesterday morning, when witnesses at Cadogan Mansions in Drapery Street were startled by the report of a revolver. Constable
Williams, forcing the door open, found the body of the composer Charles Jessold, aged 35 years, holding a bloodstained five- chambered revolver, which he had discharged into his jaw. On the bed lay the bodies of his wife, mezzo soprano Victoria London, 30, and Edward Manville, 40, a married man. The Jessolds' two- month old baby was found awake in his crib.
Police reported that the administration of fatal doses of arsenic was the cause of death of Miss London and Mr Manville, raising the possibility that Jessold watched their death- agonies before taking his own life, therefore making the tragedy threefold.
Earlier in the evening, all three had attended a dress rehearsal of the composer's first opera, Little Musgrave, which was to be given its premiere by the English Opera Company in two days. At the private party that followed,
Charles Jessold was seen in heated argument with Mr Manville, who subsequently departed with Miss London for the Jessolds' Kensington home where they relieved the nurse who was caring for the Jessolds' infant son.
Jessold had been drinking heavily and numerous witnesses reported that his behaviour was erratic. He told an intimate that his wife had stated her intention to end the marriage, retaining custody of the child.
Regardless of the composer's death, gruesome parallels between this triple domestic tragedy and Jessold's opera Little Musgrave, in which Lord Barnard murders his wife and her lover, ensure that the EOC has no choice but to cancel the production. It is expected that The Magic Flute, under the baton of Sir Arnold Bentham, will take its place in the repertory this season.
Charles Jessold was best known for the string quartet composed while he was captive at the Badenstein internment camp. Among his other compositions were The Soda Syphon Symphony, the tone poem Séance, the Folk- Song Oratorio, and his popular suite Shandyisms. In 1918, he was the first recipient of the Composers Guild's Young Composer of the Year award.
The musical critic of this newspaper, a sometime collaborator of the composer, Leslie Shepherd, blamed Jessold's alcoholism and obsessive nature, declaring the murders an unnecessary tragedy, one that would inevitably tarnish the composer's legacy.
* * *
As The World noted, I was both witness to the events at the party and
Jessold's collaborator. As such, I gave my statement to the police at Kensington on 25 June. (I had expected to spend that day anticipating the premiere of Little Musgrave, but I found myself instead in a onewindowed interrogation room.) This brief, uninspiring experience persuaded me to gather my memories of the composer: to flesh him out, as it were, as I knew him.
I was not to become Jessold's official biographer until many years later, but when the commission came, I was glad of this albeit partial narrative, written when events were fresh in my mind and my memory was at its best. Perhaps if everyone the composer knew had done half as much, we'd have a more complete picture of a man who allowed each of his magic circle access to a mere fragment of him. At the time, however, most people were happy to forget his very existence.
I gave this personal memoir to the police, in case it might be of use. What they made of it I have no idea: perhaps I should have enclosed a stamped addressed envelope so they could notify me of receipt. Perhaps it arrived too late. I now imagine my typed pages at rest in a dusty folder in a far- flung filing cabinet: 'Closed Cases Archive – J'.
But I wrote it primarily for myself, to set the record straight, to tell the story I knew, to clear my mind. That I also gave it to the police was certainly to the advantage of all.
I offer it here, as is, without further remark. The rest of the story comes later.
Chapter 1: Charles Jessold, As I Knew Him
I met Charles Jessold, the murderer, on 21 May 1910, the day after King Edward's funeral. We were guests at a Hatton Manor Saturday- to- Monday, and it was on that very first evening that I had occasion to tell of Carlo Gesualdo, the composer whose story made such a lasting impression.
I had just entered the room, a quick inventory of which revealed: three composers (one of note, two of naught), a conductor, and a miscellany of vicars, musical scholars and enthusiasts; not to mention Cedric Mount (our most esteemed member) and of course Antic Jackson who, despite arriving on the same late train from town, had managed to beat me downstairs. I was, as ever, the token musical critic.
The only stranger was a young man standing over the piano. In impeccably creased grey flannels and gaudily striped tie, he was our junior by some years. His face, a pick- and- mix assortment, conformed to no classical ideal. His forehead was too broad and his lips too mean for his fleshy cheeks, although the ever- glimmering smile at their left corner gave an impression of geniality.
His thick black hair was slicked lavishly with pomade.
His eyes, later described as devilish, were nothing of the kind; rather they were beady, though being a lucid emerald green, not unattractively so. In conversation, they spoke directly to you, a somewhat unnerving compliment that turned a stranger into a confidant whether he cared to be or not. When it was his turn to listen, those eyes never strayed from yours. To avoid his gaze, one sought refuge in the perfectly straight line from the top of his nose to the cusp of the chin that he was later to disguise with a goatee (interpreted as Mephistophelean, of course). Above his eyes, that pale billboard of forehead advertised his every flicker of emotion.
This newcomer leaned in rapt attention, back arched to a stylised forty- five degrees, his elbow on the lid of the piano, hand to his chin, thumb tucked under: a remarkably self- conscious pose. I found myself wondering whether he was perhaps used to being observed. He certainly 'lit up' a room. Any producer worth his salt would have plucked him from a crowd.
I realised that someone was playing the piano only when he stopped. The pianist, Mark Wallington, rose and with a sweep of the hand surrendered his stool to the young man, whose mask of deliberation disappeared into a broad smile that bared unruly teeth dominated by handsomely vampirical incisors. He raised his hands, as if to demonstrate that there was nothing up his sleeves, and played what he had just heard to an astonishing degree of accuracy. The performance, brought off with some relish, was greeted by applause from a group by the fireside.
Excerpted from Charles Jessold, Considered as a Murderer by Wesley Stace. Copyright 2010 by Wesley Stace. Published in the United States by Picador. All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.
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