The Little Man who Strangled his Mate

The Little Man Who Strangled His Mate

In the days when the deep leads attracted thousands to Kanowna, Moore was among the adventurous gold-seekers. In the hurly-burly of the boom days of Kanowna, when thousands rushed from all parts of Australia to what afterwards became the Kanowna deep lead, when Tom Doyle’s name was known to every adventurous prospector and when Father Long told of the famous nugget he had seen, there was, among the most daring of the gold-seeking adventurers, a little man named Arthur John Moore.

He was among the leaders who dared thirst and death itself in an unknown country, and when word went around that gold had been discovered in some distant field one of the first to make a track across desolate country was the active, good-natured little man Arthur John Moore. In those days, when a man was known for his real self, when popularity was not lightly gained, in that town where Tom Doyle and his wife Kate were Mayor and Mayoress, many were the good barroom stories of old identities that were told and retold, that none could tell with better effect than the diminutive Arthur John Moore.

He stayed in “Doyleville” long after the boom had burst, and then, when all the game and venturesome spirits had departed, Arthur John Moore had his last glasses of Hannan’s ale in that town where he had known excitement and adventure, but where he had not been able to do more than eke the bare existence that was the fate of so many thousands who sought the elusive yellow metal. Always cheery and optimistic, he spent some time in the old spots at Hannans and Coolgardie, and then he turned his back on those roaring days and ways and made for the coast.

Careful with his later earnings, he bought a poultry farm and small orchard at Belmont, and on it, he built a neat little cottage to be his home. He had his background of excitement and adventure, and now he dreamed of security and prosperity in his new enterprise. So he selected a mate with whom to share the comforts, the hopes, and the strivings of the new life that he visualised amongst the flowers, the fruit and the chickens.

But the little man who had never struck it lucky on the fields, who had looked so long and so far without ever stumbling on good gold, it seemed just wasn’t big enough to find the right woman either. For in choosing Delia Clark, he failed again. Instead of finding a mate with whom he could share his dreams and his life, he struck a heap of trouble. Instead of a helper, she became a burden.

She left him at will and returned only when the lights of the City lost their glamour and when the last hotel bar closed. This caused the little man no end of trouble and anxiety. Half his time he spent searching the city in a fruitless endeavour to bring her back to the little fowl run at Belmont. At times she settled down and seemed to forget that deep inside she wanted to wander away from the little man who was weaving so many dreams around her and their little home.

At such times Arthur Moore was happy. But just when things were beginning to move along all right, and the little man could see some results of his labours, his mate felt again the tantalising call of the bright lights and glamour of the city, the “good times” that she wanted, and that she couldn’t share with him. Then, carelessly and without consideration, she went back to the companions she knew in the wine saloons and hotel bars in the city, forgetting the little man whom she left so contemptuously on the small holding at the far end of Belmont. It had happened many times before. Many times she had left him, had her fill of glamour and excitement and had got drunk with the fumes of life. And every time when she returned he had taken her back.

But this time something changed. After a long time away she returned, the last destructive wish fulfilled, the last coin spent. She returned again to another interlude with the little man, thinking to find him the same, thinking that she would be taken back, thinking that the little man would go on dreaming. What happened on that evening was known only to Arthur John Moore. At about six o’clock a fearful scream was heard, repeated several times. Then silence !!!

A day or two passed before neighbours began talking of the screams, and some asked the little man pointedly what had happened to his wife. He gave different and evasive answers, which later reached the ears of Mounted Constables Lewis and Watts, of the Victoria Park police. As a result, the late Detective Joe Fraser and I were instructed by our inspector to investigate the matter. One Saturday afternoon we reached Moore’s farm about three o’clock and found him there. actively working around the place.

In answer to our inquiries, he said they had a row, and she cleared out again, but the story did not ring true. Small articles left about indicated that the woman if she had gone, had left most of the small belongings that women need and usually take when they leave home. Our Inquiries were having an effect upon his manner and replies, and when we entered the bedroom we found, on the top bed rail the rosary beads that belonged to Delia Clark.

Moore was rattled when his attention was drawn to them and he was reminded that of all things she would not have left them behind if she had gone away. However, he rallied and said he was going to Perth to look for her. Before leaving the farm Moore noticed Fraser endeavouring to probe the earthen floor of the kitchen with a broom handle. He took the broom handle from Fraser and sharpened it to a point. It did enable a deeper probe, but not deep enough, as Moore well knew. Early the following morning we returned to make further inquiries.

Moore was reading on a bunk in the kitchen when we entered. He was not the quiet, docile man I had met the previous afternoon. He looked at us with fear-filled eyes, grabbed an axe, and ordered us out of the room. I was convinced that the body of the woman was somewhere in the precincts of the house, but I did not expect the fearful results that followed.

We were authorised to arrest Moore and re-entered the kitchen. I said: “Moore, we do not believe your statement that Delia Clark left this house. On what we have seen we are going to arrest you for having murdered her.” He said: “Are you?” “Yes,” I replied. I had my eye on that axe beside the bed. He said: “Do you want to know where she is?” I nodded. He pointed to the floor and slowly said: “Well, she is down there. Seven feet down, and face downwards, and the more she scratches the nearer she will get to hell!”

Those were his exact words. They sound now like the cold, savage words of a heartless murderer, but I am convinced now and was then that they were uttered in remorse, a dreadful reaction to the deed he had done. Arthur John Moore told the jury when he was being defended by a well-known criminal lawyer. Mr Cliff Penny, that she came home drunk, was quarrelsome and hit him with a piece of wood. Something must have snapped in the little man’s brain. He grabbed her by the throat and kept tight hold of it. When he relaxed his grip she fell dead at his feet.

And when the little man looked down at the body of the woman who had treated him carelessly and with contempt he must have felt very big and tall. “I became distracted,” he said, “and tried to hide my act by burying her. But murder will always come out. And so it has now in my case. I regret my actions but that won’t bring her back again. She didn’t give me a square go. If she had the result would have been different.”

Cliff Penny’s eloquent appeal resulted in a verdict of manslaughter, carrying with it a sentence of 15 years. Arthur John Moore lived to serve his sentence and for several years afterwards, I think I was his confidant in anything he undertook. I saw him in the last illness that ended his strange life, and I know that he did more good acts than bad ones.

Delia Clarke was her maiden name. She was, in fact, Bridget WALLACE, nee CLARKE. Newspaper articles indicate she had a brother and her two children living in Adelaide, South Australia. She was from County Cavan, Ireland. She was buried on 3 December 1907 in the Roman Catholic Section of Karrakatta Cemetery.

John “Jack” Arthur Moore served his sentence, apparently an exemplary prisoner. He died on 21 February 1933, aged 74, destitute and living in a ramshackle stable in Subiaco. He had a sister living in Perth. He was originally from Victoria, “..came from an orchardist family in Victoria….” In early 1890, the family lost their property due to the Depression. John came to WA to try his luck on the goldfields. He and a mate struck it luck and made a small fortune on their first dig. John was about to head home to Victoria when he met a barmaid, aka Delia CLARKE, at a Goldfield hotel. She convinced him to take her with him, which he did, but he brought a property in Belmont, WA, instead of going home. And the sad story starts here… John was buried at the Karrakatta Cemetery, Anglican section.

And I know that many who knew him were able to say: “May he rest in peace.”