Mary Crittenden Scott Castle Charlton

     Let’s begin here. I would like you to close your eyes and imagine this. There is a long, wide hall with deep red floral carpeting covering shiny white marble floors . The walls are lined with ferns and other potted plants. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling with soft glowing electrical lights that are relatively new to the era. It was a hot August day in 1909 and this corridor in the Waldorf Astoria was the place to see and be seen. It was known as Peacock Alley and anybody who was anybody in early 1900’s New York society had strolled this passageway.

     Suddenly, a man ducked in from the street. He was quick with his pace as a finely dressed woman chased him from behind. She shouted his name in anger but he did not stop. William! William! His goal was to make it to the elevator and away from her. Just as he stepped through the doors of the lift he turned, feeling secure that he had made it to safety. But he had not. She was faster than he believed because she was determined to fulfill her mission. 

     Their eyes met as she reached into the pocket of her skirt. He didn’t know what she had in her hand until it was too late. It was a tiny revolver. She took aim at his heart. Because he had broken hers she would destroy his. She fired one shot striking him directly! He reached up to clutch his chest. He expected to feel the warmth of his own blood but all he felt was his fine woolen suit. Her aim had been deliberate and she had not missed but fate would intercede to save both of their lives that day. The bullet would have struck its target if not for one thing, a fountain pen. He would live but immediately begin to die of embarrassment. 

     A crowd had gathered to stare at the spectacle. Hotel staff seized Mary and the authorities were called. Both she and William were escorted to the police station. This gritty, dirty building was far from their usual surroundings. Mary just wanted this all to end, and fortunately for her, so did William. He would refuse to speak. He would not tell his story of how his day had come to this. No, he would not press charges against her and he would not cooperate if the police went on without him. He just wanted the incident to go away. He sent for his wife who arrived with their driver by carriage. He stepped up to his seat and galloped away. Without him, there was no case. They had to let her go.

     But not everyone was so willing to just let things go. The press had caught wind and they would be merciless with their gossip. The story would be in the news for days. At least until another scandal took its place. William and Mary’s names would be on the lips of everyone in polite society. Eventually, talk would die down but not for long. Months later another salacious tale would bring this saga back to everyone's minds but this time it would end much worse for Mary. 

     To get to the end we must start from the beginning. Mary Crittenden Scott was born in San Francisco, California in 1873. The daughter of a wealthy and prominent merchant, she was poised to take her place as the head of elite society. She would marry well as all good society girls did in those days. It was 1897, Mary was 24 and her husband was a Yale educated lawyer named Neville Castle. Married life would not stop Mary from living her dream. Neville was not enough for her. She needed to be on the stage and the center of everyone’s attention. In the end, their marriage would fall to the wayside. Neville would go his way: to Nome to become Attorney General of Alaska. Mary would go hers: to New York to seek fame on the stage. 

     She found some success. She acted in a few plays but had no big roles that would stand out in her career. She wrote plays but none would be published…at least not in her lifetime. She tried her hand at Vaudeville as well but nothing she did on stage would make her famous. That would come later.

     Soon she would be reunited with an old friend from California. This was William. He was married but it was never made clear if this was an issue for either. William would never confess if his relationship with Mary was a dalliance between them or an illusion for Mary.  Regardless of what it was, when it was over it would end badly. The trip to the police station would be the last time they were together in any capacity. Time was running out for Mary. She just didn’t know it yet.

     Mary’s broken heart would heal quickly. She met Porter Charlton at the party of a mutual friend in early 1910. He was a much younger man of 22, a bank clerk in New Jersey and the son of a prominent judge. She was in her 30’s by now but where in her 30’s was not clear. She had been hiding her age for years now. She hid it well enough that Porter probably didn’t know she was likely close to being old enough to be his mother. 

     Whirlwind would be a good word to describe their courtship. By March of 1910 they were married. Their marriage certificate would give his age as 22 and hers as 27. She wasn’t 27, only maybe in her mind. They sailed for their honeymoon to Italy the following April. Maybe if they had taken longer to court they would have found they were two peas in an angry little pod. Maybe if they had taken time to see they were both quick to anger and fast to fight this could have ended differently. Maybe this could have ended with them both alive.

     They took a room in a villa with a view of Lake Como. It’s difficult to imagine that anyone could be angry in a place like that but angry they were. They fought so loudly and so often that other guests began to complain. Soon they were asked to leave the villa. They would rent a cottage a short distance down the road. Privacy did not make things better.

     Their routine became the same as it had been before they were asked to leave. They would drink, they would fight, they would make up. Over and over again until soon it became too much. One evening, after drinking heavily, they began to fight as usual but this fight would end differently. This time would be the last. Porter picked up a mallet he had been using to fix a broken chair leg. He swung at Mary, and just like when Mary shot William, Porter would not miss. Mary’s body fell to the floor in a heap. Her head bled profusely as head wounds will do. She definitely appeared to be dead as Porter stood over her in a panic.

     The right thing to do would have been to call the police immediately and plead his case as a momentary lapse in judgement. This would allow Mary to be buried properly and her family to mourn appropriately. But Porter didn’t do the right thing. He did what he thought would save his own neck.

     He dragged her steamer trunk into the room where she lay motionless (are you starting to get a bad feeling about this) and started flinging her clothes out by the handful. He didn’t bother with the papers she had filling the bottom of the trunk. He lifted her in, no, more like, folded her in, and closed the top. 

     There she sat until it became dark enough outside to haul his makeshift coffin to a pier overlooking the beautiful, moonlit, lake. Along with him he had brought a pillowcase from his room. He left the trunk there as he searched for rocks to fill the pillowcase. This would be used to weigh the trunk down, he thought. He found two big rocks and chucked them into the pillow case. He then returned to the pier and tied it to the handle of the trunk.

     He then just shoved her in, no words, no prayers, just a big splash and gurgling sounds as the trunk filled with water and sank. And he was done. No body, no crime. Right?  

     He made his way to Genoa where he caught a steamer ship hoping to make it back to America before anybody even knew she was gone. It didn’t work. As he was sailing across the ocean his plans were falling to pieces, fast.

     It took only two days for Mary and the trunk to emerge from the dark, cold bottom of the lake. They were found bobbing at the surface . Fishermen snagged their catch and hauled it back to shore. I think they would have known what was inside the trunk was no treasure well before opening it. The Italian police were called and together the men peered into the trunk with Mary’s fragile frame folded up inside like a discarded rag doll. Her long blond hair covered her face. The coroner lifted her remains out and took her to his office. The police were left with the trunk. And maybe I was wrong, maybe there was treasure in there after all.

     Lining the bottom of the trunk wasn’t just any papers. They were Mary’s papers. There were letters containing her name and address. There were the plays and poems she had written. There were photographs. All were waterlogged but salvageable.  Detectives wasted no time telegraphing the American police and informing them of their find. And of their loss, her husband was missing and it was believed he was on his way home. Porter had not even stepped off the boat before Mary’s family was informed of her demise. 

     Mary’s brother, Henry Harrison Scott, raced to New Jersey to find the man he knew had killed his sister. Henry was not a man to be trifled with, no, he would make sure his sister was given her justice. He went straight to the bank Porter had worked at in New Jersey. In their hast to marry, no one had been at their wedding and he did not know what Porter looked like. Henry would obtain a good description of his appearance from his coworkers then go straight to the pier Porters ship was most likely to dock at that day. With American detectives by his side, he spotted him disembarking. Porter was taken in without a fight. 

     Porter was a coward that would strike his wife with a hammer and shove her in a trunk. It had taken days for his ship to cross the ocean. Enough time for the coroner to find out that Porter was also the kind of man that couldn’t recognize when someone was deceased. That’s correct. As you may have guessed, Mary was still alive when she was placed inside the trunk. If Porter had done the right thing he could have been an abusive ex husband. It was his cowardness and idiocy that made him a murderer.   

     Porter and his powerful father fought hard to keep him from being sent back to Italy to face trial. They actually fought it all the way to the supreme court but in the end they lost and Porter was sent back to face his accusers. He was tried near the same beautiful lake that should have been a wonderful memory of a spectacular honeymoon and not the watery grave of his unfortunate bride.

     The defense would claim that Porter was no match for Mary’s maturity and domineering personality. The prosecution would claim that Porter had learned her real age and was desperate to escape this decrepit old woman. In the end, Porter was found guilty. His sentence was 6 years and 8 months. With the time he had already served while fighting extradition, he served only one month before being released. 

     Mary was buried in a cemetery overlooking Lake Como. Porter would move to Paris after his release from prison. He was found dead from suicide in a cheap hotel room in 1933.  Mary, in death, finally received the fame she had wanted so badly but not in the way she had hoped. One of the plays she had written, the one that was in the water soaked trunk with her when she died, was bought and produced in an off broadway play. Fame has a twisted sense of humor.  In 1929 the Waldorf Astoria would be torn down to make room for the Empire state building. It would be rebuilt a few blocks over where it stands today. And of course there is still a Peacock Alley where the upper class go to see and be seen.