Mystery of the Vanishing Virgin

"ELIZABETH Is MISSING"--Lillian de la Torre--Knopf ($3.50).

On the night of Jan. 1, 1753, Elizabeth Canning, 18, a shy, yellow-haired London servant girl, said good night to her aunt at the foot of Houndsditch Road and set out for the home of her master, an elderly carpenter who lived near Bedlam Hospital. She was dressed in her holiday best, a purple gown shot with yellow, black quilted petticoat, blue stockings with red clocks, her waist was girded by a pair of ten-shilling stays. No one who knew her ever saw her in that costume again.

For four weeks Bet's mother and neighbors frantically scoured the countryside, advertised in the papers, even appealed to the local conjuror (a frightening man who wore a full-bottomed black wig backwards, peering through its curls like a sheepdog). Then, on the evening of Jan. 29, Bet appeared at her mother's door, half-naked, numb with cold, her face swollen and bloated, her hair matted. The neighbors listened aghast to her pitiful tale. "I have been almost starved to death," she quavered. "I have had nothing but bread and water since New Year's Day."

Where, they asked her, had she been so mistreated? Elizabeth's answer horrified the neighbors, soon piqued the curiosity of all London. Nearly 200 years later it attracted the attention of Lillian de la Torre, a student of 18th-Century English history. The result of Student De la Torre's gleanings in many libraries is a fascinating slice of picaresque history.

At Bedlam's Gate. Elizabeth's story: at the gate of Bedlam two men had stolen her money and given her a blow on the head that sent her into a fit. She had been subject to fits since a garret ceiling fell on her head in childhood. "When I came out of my fit," she said, "I found myself between the two men in a roadway. . . . About half an hour later we came to a house. There I saw an old woman and two young ones. The old woman took me by the hand and asked if I would 'go their way,' saying if I would I should have fine clothes. I answered No." At this the old woman fetched a knife and cut off her stays, slapped her face and pushed her into an empty loft, threatening to cut her throat if she cried out. She was kept in the loft for four weeks, living on water and crusts of bread, till at last she mustered courage to pull the boards from a nailed-up window and climb out.

"I'll lay a guinea to a farthing," cried one knowing neighbor, "she has been at Mother Wells's."

Two days later an outraged posse arrived at Susanna Wells's popular brothel in Enfield Wash (a section of London), house they found a raffish crew: susanna Wells herself; Sal Howit, her daughter; a young whore called Virtue Hall; a laborer and his tippling wife; and a hideous old gypsy named Mary Squires. But for all its ominous air, the house failed to match Elizabeth's description. The only room that could possibly have been her "empty loft" was thick with ancient, unbroken cobwebs. One window was boarded, but there was another not even latched. There were no footprints.

The Gypsy Woman. Mother Wells confronted Elizabeth. "Madam." she demanded, "do you know me?" "No," said Elizabeth, "I don't know that I've ever seen you before." But then, as the posse stood flabbergasted, Bet turned to the gypsy. "It was that old woman," she said, "that cut my stays off."

That was enough for the posse. Despite a boarder's insistence that he and his wife had slept in the loft for weeks, Mary Squires, Mother Wells and all the household were carted off to jail. "The Bawd of Enfield" was branded on the thumb and let go, but Mary Squires was tried for her ten-shilling theft (of the stays) at the Old Bailey before Sir Crisp Gascoyne, Lord Mayor of London.

There were plenty of witnesses to testify that the gypsy woman had been at Abbotsbury in Dorset on the day of the crime, but there were as many who were willing to swear they had seen her at Enfield. Conflicting evidence was further confused by the fact that eleven days had been dropped from the calendar not long before. But when Virtue Hall, the little whore, testified to the truth of Elizabeth's story, the case was finished. Mary Squires was sentenced to hang.

The Grub Street Hack. Elizabeth was a heroine, but not for long. In Grub Street a hack named Dr. John Hill, who combined the practice of medicine with the writing of plays and a column in the London Daily Advertiser ("His farces are Physic, his Physic a Farce is," said Actor David Garrick), went and talked with Virtue Hall. Under pressure she admitted that her evidence at the Old Bailey had been false from beginning to end. In the penny press, the taverns and gaming houses, the case was reopened. Londoners divided themselves into Canningites and Egyptians.

Pamphlets and treatises poured from the printers. Dubious facts in her story were endlessly recalled and debated. Justice Henry Fielding (author of Tom Jones and presiding justice at Bet's first hearing) wrote passionately: "Elizabeth Canning is a poor, honest, innocent, simple soul, and the most unhappy and most injured of all human beings."

"The girl's an impostress," retorted Sir Crisp, the Lord Mayor, promptly ordering the pardon of Mary Squires. Others called her a fraud comparable to the Rabbit Woman, who had set all London by its gullible ears with her claim "to have borne an incredible number of rabbits at a birth."

Some hinted that Bet Canning was wrote:

When Girls kiss without Licence from Parson & Proctor,

The Lover sometimes takes upon Him a Doctor,

By whose vile Prescriptions, the Child is forbid Life,

The Girl saves her Credit, and cheats the poor Midwife.

On the other hand there was the evidence of Mrs. Mayle, a midwife, who after a careful examination of Elizabeth's torn shift assured her mother: "You may make yourself easy, for I see by it that no man has debauched your child."

The Buried Secret. New bits of evidence were brought up. A farmer boy from Enfield produced a piece of bloodstained lead which, he said, must have been that which tore Bet's ear as she climbed out of the bawdyhouse window. Mary Squires herself further complicated things by suggesting that she was a witch quite capable of being in both Enfield and Abbotsbury at once.

"This story is all of a piece, it is all witchcraft and enchantment," said Crown Counsellor Willes, as for the second time the case of Elizabeth Canning went before the bar of the Old Bailey, this time with Elizabeth in the dock. She was found guilty of willful perjury. Her sentence: banishment to America. The rhymesters celebrated the new event:

That poor Girl, young Betty Canning,

Charged with Perjury and Trepanning,

Now must make a long Voyagio

While Egyptians sing Courragio

Doddle, Doodle Doo.

In America Elizabeth took service with a clergyman and in time married one John Treat. In 1773, in Wethersfield, Connecticut, her secret was buried with her.

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