Christina Edmunds was born in 1828 to a respectable family. Growing up not much happened to Christina until she met Dr. Charles beard. Although he claimed they never had a sexual affair it is believed that they did indeed get together, even though he was all ready married. When he decided to break it off, Christina responded in kind by sending doctor Beard’s wife a gift of poisoned chocolates. In 1870 Mrs. Beard became seriously ill but recovered. Beard suspected Edmunds of poisoning his wife, however for fear of the affair coming to light he kept his mouth shut. If he had only gone to the police with his suspicions he may have stopped Christina Edmund’s poisoning spree. She would buy chocolates from the local stores and lace them with strychnine, then return the chocolates to the stores so the tainted candy would be resold to an unsuspecting public. She got the strychnine from a dentist friend, claiming it was to kill stray cats. She began to draw attention to herself for buying so much chocolate, so she started to pay kids to buy the chocolates for her. Several people in Brighton had become ill from eating the chocolates but nobody connected the illness with the chocolates. In June 1871, Sidney Albert, a 4 year old on vacation with his family, died as a result of eating the tainted chocolates. This however did not deter Edmonds from increasing her poisoning rampage. She started sending parcels of chocolates to prominent people, including Mrs beard again. She even sent chocolates to herself to deflect suspicion. But once Dr. Beard informed the police of his suspicions, he brought to light the psychopath that was Christina Edmunds. She was arrested and charged with the attempted murder of Mrs. Beard and the murder of Sidney Albert. Her trial began at the Old Bailey in January of 1872 where her mother testified that both sides of their family had a history of mental illness. She was found guilty and sentenced to death, however it was reprieved due to the mental state of Edmunds and instead she received life in prison. She spent the rest of her life in Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum, dying there in 1907. She became known as the Chocolate Cream Poisoner. Pictured above are Christina Edmunds, her weapons of choice, some newspaper clippings from the time and Broadmoor Asylum. Source Wikipedia
In July 1992, 23 year old Rachel Jane Nickell was brutally murdered after being sexually assaulted, stabbed a total of 49 times and mutilated. Her 2 year old son, Alex, was with her at the time and, although he remained unharmed, was discovered clinging to his mother’s lifeless body after witnessing the entire attack.
Later that same year, a man named Colin Stagg who frequently walked his dog in the same area was named as a suspect, despite a lack of evidence linking him to the crime. In order to coerce him into confessing, the police set up a ‘honey trap’ in which a female officer disguised herself as a woman with an interest in Satanism and made contact with Stagg. However, despite being subtly prompted by an undercover decoy, he did not admit to committing any crime. A judge later condemned this course of action by the police, labelling it as “deceptive conduct of the grossest kind.” After this point, the case began to turn cold. In 2000, the case was again reviewed and authorities began to acknowledge that the perpetrator could be linked to other criminal offences. Additionally, the victim’s clothing was sent for testing once more. The availability of DNA technologies had since emerged, which allowed certain articles of clothing to now be examined which previously could not be. A sample of tape which had been attached to Rachel’s skin was found to contain male DNA, despite being kept in storage as evidence for 12 years. This was enough to rule out close family members.
Attention turned to a man named Robert Napper, a convicted murderer and rapist already renowned for the 1993 killing of a woman and her daughter in similar circumstances. After this incident, police had seized a red painted toolbox from his possession which was tested after tiny flecks of red paint were found in a sample of Nickell’s son’s hair. The red paint coating the toolbox and the flecks found in Alex’s hair proved to be a match. In November 2007, Napper was charged with the murder of Rachel Nickell and detained indefinitely at Broadmoor Hospital the following year, which has housed the likes of Peter Sutcliffe, Charles Bronson and Ronnie Kray. Colin Stagg received £706,000 in compensation after being wrongfully implicated and publicly outed as a murderer.
Images of serial killer Robert Napper as a child with his siblings. Napper earned the name the ‘Plumstead Ripper’ in his adulthood when he raped, murdered and mutilated three victims. The most notable murder he committed occurred in Plumstead, where he stabbed and killed 27 year old Samantha Bissett, before targeting her four year old daughter. The daughter, Jazmine, was sexually assaulted before she was smothered to death.
Napper was arrested and charged for these murders but was convicted only of manslaughter. The reason for this was that Napper was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, as well as being found to have Asperger’s syndrome. This lead to hospitalisation in Broadmoor for an indefinite period of time.
June and Jennifer were identical twins who were born in Wales. They earned the name “The Silent Twins” since they would only talk to each other. Attempts to separate them resulted in the twins becoming catatonic and overly withdrawn.
They were both very creative and each of them ended up writing numerous novels. They ended up turning to crime for creative inspiration. The girls committed a number of crimes including arson, which led to their being committed to Broadmoor Hospital, a high-security mental health hospital. There they remained for 14 years.
While they were at Broadmoor they began to discuss how one of them needed to die for the other to live on. Jennifer decided to be the sacrifice. After Jennifer’s death, June began to speak to other people. In an interview she said
‘I’m free at last, liberated, and at last Jennifer has given up her life for me.’“
Kenneth Erskine , also known as the “Stockwell strangler” , is a British serial killer. Like most murderers , Erskine had a bad childhood. His parents abandoned him , he attended various special schools and by age 12 , he was homeless. His crimes , at first , were minor. He would commit burglaries , he was so successful at this that he was able to open 10 bank accounts with the proceeds.
In the space of just over 3 months , Kenneth is confirmed to have murdered 7 elderly people , though he is suspected of killing four more. He would break into their homes , strangle them and, sometimes , sexually assault them. In many of his later murders , he stole money and possessions from their homes. Erskine was caught when a victim managed to sound an alarm whilst he was being throttled. A psychological evaluation of Kenneth showed that he has a mental age of a seven year old , while also suffering from schizophrenia and anti social personality disorder. He was sentenced to a minimum of 40 years in Broadmoor hospital , and charged with manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. During his trial he was caught masturbating , he fell asleep several times and also started to snore.
During his time in Broadmoor Hospital , where he still resides , he has been attacked on several occasions , one of these incidents includes a patient attacking him with a home-made blow torch. He has made “friends” with Yorkshire ripper Peter Sutcliffe , and came to his rescue when a patient started to strangle him with a pair of headphones. Kenneth is unlikely to be released before 2028.
On 15 July 1992, 23-year-old Rachel Nickell, was walking on Wimbledon Common with her 3-year-old son, Alexander when she was sexually assaulted and stabbed to death. A passer by discovered the body and little Alexander holding to his mother repeating “wake up, mummy”. The little boy had placed paper on his mother as a make shift bandage to try and cover the wounds. The case remained unsolved until 2007, when more advanced forensic techniques were available. Robert Napper, an inmate in Broadmoor, was found guilty of her murder. He was in Broadmoor for killing Samantha Bisset and her 4-year-old daughter, Jazmine, just 16 months after the murder of Nickell. He is being held indefinitely at Broadmoor.
I live fairly close to a famous psychiatric hospital which is also for the criminally insane… now you might think this is cool and I’m not going to lie, I think it’s cool but…
Every Monday around 10 am you can hear the sirens, when they’re practising for a possible emergency and schools from time to time do practices, have a mock lock down, just so everyone knows what to do in case someone escapes.
And yes that is all good… just every Monday I freak out a little, thinking what if you hear the sirens another time, when you’re not supposed to…
And a few minutes ago, I swear I heard the sirens but… I’m sure I just hallucinated… or I really hope so…
Richard Dadd was a young British painter of huge promise who fell into mental illness while touring the Mediterranean in the early 1840s. He spent over forty years in lunatic asylums, dying at Broadmoor in 1886. During that time he painted, producing mesmerizingly detailed watercolors and oil paintings of which The Fairy Feller’s Master-Stroke is now the most well known.
Among the symptoms of Dadd’s illness – which sounds today like a form of schizophrenia – were delusions of persecution and the receipt of messages from the Ancient Egyptian deity Osiris. Dadd was commanded to kill his father and did so in the summer of 1843. After an equally well planned escape to France, the artist was eventually admitted to the Criminal Lunatic department of Bethlem Hospital in Lambeth (now the Imperial War Museum) and it was here that he painted the Fairy Feller. According to the inscription on the back of the canvas it took him nine years to complete, between 1855 and 1864.
The Falmouth Falcons are a Quidditch team that plays in the British and Irish Quidditch League. The team is based in the town of Falmouth, which is located in the southwest of England.
The Falcons play in robes of dark grey and white with a falcon emblem on the chest. They are known for their fierce and violent style of play. In fact, they are so violent, that the team motto is: Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads. The Broadmoor brothers, Karl and Kevin, who played as Beaters between 1958 and 1969, were suspended on no less than fourteen occasions due to persistent rule-breaking.
“This sister of mine, a dark shadow robbing me of sunlight, is my one and only torment.” - Written in the journal of June Gibbons
June and Jennifer Gibbons were two twin girls who were known as ‘The Silent Twins’ as they never spoke to anyone for the most part of their lives, except to each other. Born in a small Welsh village, they quickly learnt that they were the only black girls in town and felt ostracized by locals. They were diagnosed as mute, however their mother noticed that they had a language of their very own: According to her, they “had distorted their speech into a secret code only they could understand.” Something else unusual is that they mirrored each other’s every movement. An expert studied this unusual behaviour and was fascinated. She took them horse-riding to encourage individual movement; but if one fell off the horse, the other would immediately follow. The girls displayed genius IQs and were avid writers, creating their own fantasies together and keeping several diaries throughout their lives.
Their high intelligence caused them to become very bored, and the pair turned to crime. June wrote in her diary: “No friends. Nothing else to do. Nothing to fill the cold hour.” before the pair robbed several stores and set fire to half the village. When they were teenagers, they both published their own novels detailing these crimes (June wrote Pepsi Cola Addict and Jennifer wrote Discomania) When they got bored of committing petty crimes, they began to attack each other. Jennifer strangled June with a telephone wire, so severely that she damaged her trachea. June then tried to drown Jennifer in a river. Despite this, they remained utterly inseparable, apparently able to forgive each other for attempted murder. In 1982, they were arrested for burning down a barn and sent to Broadmoor, Britain’s biggest mental institute. Officials at the hospital decided to keep them apart, as the violence was getting worse. As you can probably guess, this did not go well and each attempted suicide on multiple occasions. After spending 10 years at the hospital, they were allowed to see each other in supervised sessions. They also caught the attention of a journalist, Marjorie Wallace. Now speaking to trusted friends, they told Marjorie that they had made a pact that one of them was “going to die.”
Marjorie suspected murder, but she did not contact doctors as she knew the twins trusted her. On the day of their release, Jennifer suddenly died due to an inflammation of her heart. The exact cause of death remains unknown. When asked about how she felt about her sister’s death, June said “I am free, I am liberated. At last, Jennifer has given up her life for me.” June lives a normal life with her family in Wales. She says she doesn’t remember much of her “psychotic twin.” but is glad she is free from the dark shadow of her sister. Exactly what was wrong with the twins, remains a mystery.
It’s 4 o’clock, and it’s raining. “Oh, it must be 4 o’clock!” people say, smiling tightly, setting their watches. At 4 o’clock the next day, it rains. “Oh man, must be 4!” people say, setting their watches. It always rains at 4. People set their watches to it.
Yet even with all this rain there is no keeping the fires at bay. The streets are inundated at 4 every day, and still the mountains emit smoke and the news warns you to keep downwind.
Driving up to the Broadmoor, the change is audible. No longer the seedy motels and discount mattress shops, no longer the discount stores and the safeway with its low, low prices; a gristly “pop” and you are driving on a picturesque, tree-lined and quiet avenue, the hotel looming above you, smiling, welcoming. Almost enough to make you turn back.
“Hey, got some pot?” is the question you always hear when people find out where you’re from. You laugh, the first 10 times. The next 15, you smile. The next 20, you can barely even sigh. “Hey, got some pot?” they ask. “Hey, got some pot?” they ask, your mother, your father, your reflection.
You put a sweater in your car in the summer, just in case. Even in the periodic 4 o’clock rain, you never need it. You forget what it’s like to feel cold; the fires come to claim you and you smile.
You put an extra hat and pair of gloves in your car in the winter, just in case. Your heater’s been acting up lately; best get that fixed. You know what happened to your cousin (well, you don’t, but you know). You pull the hat on, driving to work. Walking up to the building, you pull the gloves on. When you walk back out to the car, you find you’ve somehow put on more coats, more leggings, and another hat. It’s never enough. The sun shines, a hollow mockery of the heat it purports to bring. Maybe you won’t fix that heater.
“Hydroponic tomatoes!” “Home-brewed beer!” “Hand cut firewood!” the signs scream, fighting for space on the side of the road. Every couple of weeks there is a culling, and the remaining signs seems taller, thicker. In celebration there is a farmer’s market, and the city feasts.
It’s so beautiful out, you think. Why don’t I walk to the library, instead of driving? You live in such a beautiful state, you really should enjoy it more. But you start walking, and had forgotten it was summer. You begin to sweat almost immediately, dripping and soaking your socks. You arrive at the library, where they provide you with a towel and a change of clothes, sympathetically. You stay as long as you can, but they must close eventually. No one offers you a ride home. You realize you’d forgotten to bring your “just in case” sweater, and it is now dark.
The mountains are west. The mountains are always west. “Never Eat Soggy Waffles,” people chant, always finishing facing west, towards the mountains. The mountains have always been west. You leave the state once, on a ill-advised trip, and barely make your way back, panting and starving and newly-devoted. The mountains are west, they are always west. Without them, is there even a west? “Never Eat Soggy Waffles,” you chant, rotating and finishing facing west, where the mountains are, orienting yourself. The mountains are west. This is right. This is good. The mountains are west. There are no other directions, just the west.
It’s moth season. As long as you can remember, you have feared them. No one understands; they laugh at your fear. But they have never had to shake out their sheets, their blankets, their plates their mugs their bowls their clothes only to hold their breath and close their eyes in anticipation of the swarm. It’s moth season, and you attempt to barricade every single crack, but you have to leave sometime. When you come back, all of the furniture has been replaced by moths. All of your clothes are now moths. Your mother hands you a cup of coffee, her hand looking like a moth leg. You refuse to look at her face, but you slowly bring your hand up to your face and feel the fuzz. It’s moth season for at least another couple months.
“There’s two seasons here, winter and construction!” people tell you cheerfully when you move in. Soon enough, you are telling it to people when they move in. But they are wrong. You are wrong. It is always construction. In the midst of the fires, of the snow, of the 4 o’clock rains, there are always to traffic cones to watch out for, “SLOW” signs to obey. The highway narrows to two lanes, and then, eventually, to one. Soon enough, cars are taking turns attempting to navigate around the maze of signs and additions, always fearful of the cones. You’ve only seen a construction worker once- he was sitting in a crane, sipping coffee and looking down at the drivers, keeping score and smiling.
Richard Dadd was a painter of the Victorian era and most known for his intricate paintings of supernatural beings and fairies. He was born Chatham, Kent. As a youngster he showed quite an aptitude for painting and this got him in to the Royal Academy of Arts at the age of 20. He was awarded the Medal for life drawing in 1840. Quite a distinguished career followed where he illustrated books. In 1842, Sir Thomas Phillips invited Dadd on a trip through Europe to Greece, Turkey, southern Syria and Egypt. It was a long journey and towards the end of December, traveling up the Nile, Dadd underwent a dramatic personality change. He became delusional, violent and he believed himself to be under the influence of the Egyptian god Osiris. It was thought to only be sunstroke. He was finally diagnosed in 1843 as being of unsound mind and was taken by his family to recuperate in the village of Cobham, Kent. Unfortunately though, in August of that year Dadd killed his father with a knife because he was convinced the man was the devil in disguise. He then tried to run to Paris but instead was arrested when he tried to kill another tourist with a razor. He confessed to killing his father and was returned to England and sent to the Bethlhem Psychiactric Hospital a.k.a Bedlam. It was here where, under the encouragement of doctors, Dadd came out with some of his most beautiful paintings. Dadd probably suffered from paranoid schizophrenia, it seems to have run in his family, all though there really wasn’t much information about his siblings. After 20 years Dadd was moved to Broadmoor Hospital, a psychiatric facility outside of London. And there he stayed, painting constantly until January 7th 1886 when he died from an extensive disease of the lungs. Source Wikipedia
Okay this is a really odd request, but would you mind writing an imagine were the reader is really ambitious and goes through a phase were she feels like nothing gets done and he comforts her? Thank you!!!
I did a lot more research for this fic than most but it was fun. Also, if you can catch the reference I will sell you my soul. Just kidding, I don’t have a soul
You walked into one of the only places you felt at home. The library. You had a mountain of books beside you just waiting to be read. You snuggled into a chair and opened the first book. You were s couple chapters in when your friend rushed up to you.
“Y/N! Where have you been, you promised to help me on an essay for potions” they exclaimed. Of course, how could you have forgotten
“So sorry, let’s go”
You give one last look to your books sitting on the table before being dragged away to the common room.
“Okay, so you’re studying the Draught of Peace correct?” you ask your friend.
“Yeah, So I have the ingredients down but it’s the uses that I can’t figure out and we’re supposed to write what other uses the ingredients have.This is absolutely ludicrious!” they shout, earning a few stares from other students.
“Well Moonstone is used in some other love potions, Porcupine quills are used in the cure for boils. This really isn’t difficult” you explain.
“Easy for you to say, your basically passing ever class” they retort back. You raise your hand in defense.
“Okay okay, how can I help?” you ask.
“Look in my book and find the instructions please” the tell you. You pick up their book and start flipping through pages.
“Okay, then you have to add powdered unicorn horn until the potion turns pink.” you tell them.
“What step is that?” They ask.
“11″ you respond.
You’re still searching through the book when your house quidditch captain, Griffiths, walks through the common room door.
“L/N! We have practice in 5. Ready?” They call. You jump out of the seat. “Uh Comming”you yell back.
“I know I promised to help so when I get back ill write some of it for you okay?” You ask. Four friend nods their head and you rush up to your dorm and grab your robe and broom.
“Ready!” you say breathlessly.
You walk down to the field. Still trying to remember the other uses for powdered unicorn hair when you crash into someone.
“I’m so sorry” you say standing up. You look and see Newt.
“Newt! I haven’t talked to you in ages” you say hugging him. He smiles that typical Newt smile.
“Hi Y/n, um would you like to catch up maybe?” he asks.
“Oh I’m so sorry but I have quidditch practice and then I have to help someone write an essay and then I have to finish my own homework. But maybe tomorrow?” you reply in a rushed voice.
“Y/N!” your captain yells.
“I’ve got to go but see you later” you yell to Newt before rushing down to the quidditch field.
“Uh Yeah, See you later” Newt yells back.
He watches as you sprint towards your teammates. A small frown on his lips, he’s noticed how much you’ve been doing and it worried him. You were one of his first friends but lately, he hasn’t seen you due to your very busy schedule. He decides to just go back to his common room and hope to catch you at dinner.
“Okay, L/n, we need you to stay low, we’re trying a new technique and you’re our best at scoring on this team” your captain tells you. You set off and follow the quaffle below your teammates.
“Broadmoor! look out for the bludger!” Griffiths yells. Broadmoor dodges but the bludger comes straight towards you.
“L/N!” O’Hare, the seeker yelled at you.
You were lost in thought about your classes and Newt that you didn’t see the bludger until Morgan came chasing after and hit it away from your face. You yelped in surprise and fell off your broom. You gripped it by your hands and struggled to get your feet back on it. You slowly floated to the ground. the rest of your team joined you.
“Y/n, are you okay? you seem so off. Usually, you’re on top of things” Griffith asks concerned.
“I’m sorry, I just have a lot going on” you apologize.
“Go back to your dorm and relax. You clearly have too much on your mind” they tell you.
“But-” you start to protest
“No buts, we need you with a clear head for the match this weekend” they demand
You sigh and trudge back to your common room. You fall on the small couch in the corner before getting interrupted once again. ]
“Y/n” they say quietly.
“What” you groan out.
“We have class. Muggle studies”. You hear them walk away. You roll off the couch and run back up to your dorm and grab your books.
“Glad you could finally join us Y/n” Professor Quirrell says.
You put on your best fake smile before sitting down next to Newt. You almost forgot you had this class with him. While most thought it was boring, you thought muggle studies was interesting. You usually took very detailed notes but today you just couldn’t focus.
“Your homework, will be a 7-inch parchment on muggles newest invention, electricity in homes” Quirrell announces
“and y/n, please arrive on time next time” he says curtly.
You nod before dashing out of his class. Newt tries catching up but he watches you run back to your dorm. You sit back in the library. It’s quiet and peaceful, you breathe a sigh of relief. You pull out your friend’s essay and start writing.
“also, if too much of any ingredient is put in the potion, it could cause the drinker to fall into a deep sleep, possibly one that would be irreversible” you murmur to yourself.
When you get stressed you tend to say what you write out loud. You glanced at the clock and saw it was dinner. You sighed and looked at the mountain of homework still left. You keep working deciding that missing dinner one day would be fine.
Newt thought otherwise. He kept looking around the great hall for you. When he couldn’t find you he got curious. He slipped out of dinner and walked to the place he thought you would be. The library. It was virtually empty besides a strong candle light in the corner table. He walked over and saw you scribbling down words on parchment. Your hand cramped and you dropped the quill.
“Y/n, you need to take a break” he says walking closer and sitting across from you.
“Newt! why are you here, it’s dinner time?” you ask, going back to writing.
“I could ask you the same thing” he replies. He sees your hand shaking as you write. He swiftly takes the quill from your hand.
“Newt! Give that back!” you yell, reaching across the table.
“Not until you come to dinner with me” he says, holding the quill out of your reach.
“I can’t, I have way too much work to do” you whine.
“Y/n, you’re always pushing yourself so hard. Just come to dinner, please” Newt begs.
“But Newt, I have so much. I have to finish this essay for my friend, then i have my own homework including the essay Quirrell assigned and I have to do well on it because he seems to hate me which by the way I didn’t take sufficient notes on because I was stressed about Quidditch, I have a game soon and I need to practice strategy and I haven’t done anything I need to!” you exclaim resting your head on the table.
“Oh y/n, you don’t have to do someone else’s essay, it’s not your responsibility and Quirrell doesn’t hate you. I heard he’s just stressed. He might lose his job, a new teacher might replace him. And, you’re the best quidditch player I’ve ever seen. You need rest.”
Newt says softly as he scoots his chair closer to you. He rests his hand on your back and rubs soothingly.
“I-I just, i’m always so on it.” you say.
“I know and that’s amazing but everyone needs a break once in a while love.” Newt says. He stands up and takes out his wand.
“Come on love, let’s go to dinner” he says reaching out his hand. You look up at Newt who put on puppy dog eyes.
“Fine, but after dinner. back to Homework” You say taking his hand.
“Mhm” Newt replies. Newt points his wand at your books.
Your books and papers neatly stack themselves and float into your bag. Newt picks up the bag and takes your hand.
“Allons-y love!” he says.
“Allons-y?” you question.
“Um, it’s french. for Let’s go” he explains.
You smile at him and start walking.
“Allons-y Scamander!” you giggle walking towards the great hall.
Dragging the hufflepuff behind you who has a big smile on his face, satisfied he got you to relax for once.
I’ve never related to the reader more tbh. Hope y'all liked this one