The Crimes of Victorian Durham

Durham during the Victorian era was a place of change, hardship, and tightly knit communities. Behind the familiar rhythm of daily life, there existed another world — one of quiet desperation, sudden violence, and secrets that rarely travelled far beyond the street where they began. Life was not always easy, and when things went wrong, the results could be shocking, tragic, and on occasion, deeply unsettling.

This blog explores the darker side of Victorian Durham, bringing its crimes and their stories back to life, drawing on both well-known cases and those now largely forgotten. Using contemporary accounts and records, it gathers together tales of murder, violence, and wrongdoing as they were reported and remembered at the time, revealing something of the fear, tension, and hidden undercurrents that ran beneath ordinary lives — and allowing the voices of the past to speak for themselves.

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Sarah Dunn: Child Murderer (1885)

In July 1885, a 17-year-old serving girl from a farming family in rural County Durham, stood in the dock of Durham Assizes accused of murdering her 16 month old daughter. As the case unfolded, it would cause ripples far beyond the county, prompting widespread public debate, a change in the law, and ultimately an intervention from the Secretary of State himself.

Family and Early Life

Sarah Dunn was born in Scargill, County Durham, on 24 June 1867, the youngest child of Richard and Sarah Dunn. Her father, Richard, began his working life as an agricultural labourer, a job that meant the family were often on the move, from one township to another, following whatever work could be found. They eventually settled more permanently at their own farm, Burn Hill, in Middridge, near Shildon, County Durham.

Richard and Sarah had married young in 1850 and, because Sarah was still classed as a ‘minor’, they had needed permission from her father, John Robinson, before they could wed. As they began their married life together, they welcomed their first child – Sarah’s eldest brother, John (no doubt named after his Grandad) – in 1852.

Over the years that followed, the family grew steadily, with six more sons and a daughter joining the household before Sarah’s eventual arrival, making her the ninth and final child. Life for the Dunn family during this time will have been hard, shaped by a life of rural labour. With a large household to support, daily life was likely modest and tightly organised, with everyone expected to play their part from an early age. The eventual settling at Burn Hill Farm may have brought a welcome sense of security, but it did not mark an end to hard work – only a chance to put down roots in a landscape where labour, family, and survival were closely bound together.

Birth of her Child

Growing up, Sarah attended school daily where she made a number of friends, including Bertha Iley, daughter of MP William Iley, a relationship that would prove pivotal. After leaving school, Sarah – like a lot of working-class girls of her age – entered domestic service. Later newspaper accounts would suggest that it was during this period that she became pregnant – she was just fifteen years old. Sarah was working at a home near Catterick when she was seduced by a man described as significantly older than herself. This person may have been someone in a position of greater power and security, as their identity was never made public, and no effort appears to have been made at the time to hold him to account. They somehow managed to remain completely hidden throughout. As so often happened during this period, responsibility settled entirely upon the young woman, while the man involved remained unnamed and unchallenged.

Sarah gave birth to her daughter in circumstances that were never openly examined in court. The child’s arrival was marked by secrecy and strain, on 13th January 1884, within a rural household already shaped by hard work and limited choices. By today’s standards a teenage pregnancy is common place, but no doubt a sense of shame will have hung over the family as was the way for unmarried mothers during this period. There is no evidence that Sarah received any meaningful support beyond her immediate family, nor that she exercised any real control over the situation in which she found herself. What is clear is that she bore the weight of fear, shame, and uncertainty largely alone – feelings that were soon to be cruelly intensified.

The Crime

The morning of 8th May 1885 began quietly, without any outward sign of what was to come. Although long since gone, Burn Hill Farm lay some distance from neighbouring houses and covered 110 acres – an area now occupied by a housing estate in Newton Aycliffe. Sarah’s parents left the house at 8am that morning, to visit the Farmer’s Market in nearby Shildon, leaving Sarah and her young daughter, “Bertha” alone in the house, a common enough occurrence in rural life, but one that would later take on a heavy significance.

It was on that same morning that Sarah received a letter from the child’s father. In this letter, he informed Sarah that he would not honour the promise he made to her, and he was to marry another woman. This news came suddenly, and out of the blue, quashing any form of prior promise, hope or commitment that Sarah may have clung on to. Later petitions would describe the shock of this revelation as profound, arriving at a moment when Sarah was already vulnerable, isolated, and burdened by fear and uncertainty. Remember, Sarah was only 17 at this time, barely out of childhood herself. Those who spoke on her behalf believed that the contents of the letter overwhelmed her judgement, leaving her unable to think clearly about what she was doing or what the consequences might be.

What happened next was reconstructed only after the fact. No one witnessed, or could confirm with any certainty, the events of that morning – and Sarah herself offered little explanation. At some point during that morning, the child’s life was lost. Her body was later found buried in a nearby field, close to the farm. The manner of the death would become the subject of medical opinion and legal argument, but the precise sequence of Sarah’s actions, her thoughts, her intentions, and the moments between, remained known only to her.

By the time others returned to the farm, the tragedy had already occurred. What remained was silence, confusion, and the slow arrival of suspicion. – as Sarah was nowhere to be found.

Recovery & Arrest

When Richard Dunn returned to Burn Hill Farm later that day, he found both Sarah and the child missing. He noticed that some clothes were also missing, alarmed he immediately went back to Shildon to fetch his wife. He then notice some footprints in the mud, heading toward Heighington Station, where he learned that she had left by train.

A porter at Heighington railway station later gave evidence that she had asked about a train to Darlington, and whether another connection could be made on to Richmond. Noticing her muddy boots, he asked whether she had been running away from her place of residence. She replied that she had come from the Heighington side, across the field. On the following morning, enquiries revealed that Sarah had been seen in Richmond.

Her father, Richard, travelled on to Richmond where it was hiring day, an event that saw agricultural laborers, farm servants, and domestic staff seeking employment for the coming year, and eventually found his daughter in the street at around four o’clock in the afternoon. When he questioned her about the whereabouts of the child, she refused to answer. Richard had no option than to inform the Police and Sarah was taken into custody. Even then, she said nothing about what had happened or where the child might be. Only after her arrest did attention return to Burn Hill Farm and the surrounding fields, where the child’s body was later discovered buried a short distance from the house. From that moment, suspicion settled firmly on Sarah, and what had been a private tragedy became a matter for the law. The discovery of the child’s body was later described at the inquest:

“The body was discovered in a field about a hundred yards from the farmhouse. The place appeared like an old grave, and on removing the sod and stones a hollow place was found, holding water, in which the child’s body was discovered.”

When Sarah was arrested in Richmond, the case against her was built largely on circumstance. No one had witnessed the act itself, but suspicion quickly settled upon her, and she was charged with wilful murder. From the outset, the tone was severe.

The Trial

Her trial took place at the Durham Assizes later that summer. Now aged 17, reports at the time describe her as very young, visibly distressed, and scarcely able to raise her head during proceedings. The prosecution set out a clear and uncompromising narrative, while the defence offered little in the way of explanation. Much that lay behind Sarah’s situation — how she had come to be pregnant at such a young age, or the emotional state in which she found herself — remained unspoken in court. The law concerned itself purely with the actions, not the circumstances.

When the jury retired, they did so for less than an hour. Their verdict was guilty. Yet even as it was delivered, it carried hesitation

Clerk of Arraigns: "Gentlemen of the Jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?"
Foreman: "Yes"
Clerk of Arraigns: "Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?"
Foreman: "Guilty. But we strongly recommend her to mercy"

That unease was echoed by the judge. In passing sentence, he spoke of the gravity of the crime and the helplessness of the child, but he also acknowledged Sarah’s youth and distress..

"Sarah Dunn, the jury have discharged their very painful duty with a sense, I have no doubt of sorrow, but still they have found a verdict, the only verdict which their consciences could justify. It is one in which I regret to say I entirely concur. I cannot find it in my heart to say one word to add to the misery which this horrible moment must bring to you and those to whom you are dear, and those I trust are dear to you. The recommendation to mercy which the jury have made shall be forwarded to the proper quarter, but it rests with the Secretary of State and not with myself to say what effect shall be given to it. Murder has been done, and undoubtedly and unquestionably a cruel murder has been done on a helpless and unthinking child. For that crime, there is but one punishment, but one sentence, and that sentence it is now my sorrowful duty to pronounce upon you, and that is that you be taken from the place where you now stand to the place from whence you came, and from thence to the place of execution in the prison in which you are confined, and that there you shall be hanged by the neck till you are dead; and may the Lord have mercy on your soul."

The sentence of death was pronounced as a matter of legal duty rather than moral certainty. As it was delivered, Sarah was visibly overcome and upon leaving court, as she was helped back to her cell, Sarah broke down and sobbed.

An Intervention

No sooner had the trial ended than efforts began to overturn Sarah’s death sentence. An execution date was set for 8 August 1885, leaving those who rallied to her cause with little time to act. Petitions were organised almost immediately, and appeals were made directly to the Home Secretary, urging that mercy be shown in what many regarded as an exceptional case. Six days after the death sentence was passed, the results of the petition were rewarded when the Secretary of State announced that it was being commuted “with a view of commutation to penal servitude for life.”.

Central to this effort was Mr W. H. Iley of Shildon, who had taken a close interest in Sarah’s welfare from the outset. It was he who promoted the petition on her behalf and sought to bring her case to wider attention. The petition was forwarded by Mr J. T. Proud, who in turn placed it before Mr J. M. Paulson, M.P., asking him to use his influence, and that of his parliamentary colleagues, at the Home Office. In correspondence dated June 1887, Mr Paulson confirmed that he had personally presented the petition and pressed for it to receive favourable consideration, acknowledging the sadness of the case and expressing hope that an exception might be made.

Support also came from within Parliament itself. Mr J. W. Pease, writing from the House of Commons Library, acknowledged receipt of the memorial in favour of Sarah’s release and undertook to raise the matter with Mr Paulson. Another supporter, Mr T. Milvain, wrote to Mr Proud expressing his long-standing interest in Sarah’s case, dating back to her trial, and his sincere sympathy for her situation. He pledged his support for the petition and stated that he would consider it a source of personal gratification if he were able to assist in securing her discharge. While these efforts continued, Sarah remained in Fulham Convict Prison. Reports from the period describe her conduct as exemplary. She was employed in the prison laundry for much of each day and progressed from third to first class during her sentence — a clear indication of steady behaviour and compliance with prison discipline.

In June 1887, Sarah wrote a letter from Fulham to her parents, which was later published in the press. The letter is notable for its restraint. She wrote of her work in the laundry, expressed gratitude for visits, and asked after the health of her family. Her concern was directed not toward her own suffering, but toward home — the farm, the animals, and the burdens her absence had placed on those she loved. She signed the letter simply as “your loving and affectionate daughter.” For those campaigning on her behalf, the letter offered quiet but powerful evidence of her character and state of mind.

Nearly five years after her conviction, the campaign finally succeeded. In March 1890, Mrs W. H. Iley received confirmation that Sarah Dunn was to be released. The official notice, issued from Whitehall and signed by E. Leigh Pemberton on behalf of the Secretary of State, stated that the circumstances of Sarah’s case had been reviewed and that Her Majesty had been advised to authorise her release on licence.

Sarah’s release from prison took place quietly, and under careful supervision. When the prison gates opened, she was met by Mr J. M. Paulson, M.P., who accompanied her to his home in London, where she remained overnight. The following morning, she left the capital by train, and at Darlington was joined by her elderly father and Mr W. H. Iley, who travelled with her on the final leg of the journey. By the time she arrived at Shildon railway station in the early evening, a large crowd had assembled, drawn not by spectacle but by a shared sense that something long and painful was finally reaching its end. Outside the station, a horse and trap were waiting, along with her brothers and Mrs Iley, ready to escort her home. There was no formal procession and no public address; instead, after many handshakes and quiet expressions of goodwill, Sarah stepped into the trap and was driven away. Observers remarked that she appeared to be in good health. When she reached Burn Hill Farm, the reunion between mother and daughter was described by the press as a moment too private, and too sacred, to be put into words. With that, Sarah Dunn passed once more from public view, returning not as a symbol or a cause, but simply as a daughter coming home

Later Life

After her release, Sarah was able to rebuild a life away from public attention. In 1897, she married John Lumley, a farmer from North Yorkshire, and settled into married life at Pickhill, near Thirsk. There, she returned to the rhythms of rural living that had shaped her from childhood. Sarah and John went on to raise four children together, and she spent the remainder of her life within the close-knit farming community she knew so well. She died in 1957, having lived to the age of ninety, and in her will left her estate to her son Fred and her daughter Ethel – a quiet conclusion to a life that had once been subjected to extraordinary scrutiny.

A Change in the Law

Sarah Dunn’s case did not unfold in isolation. It came at a moment when public concern about the vulnerability of young girls was reaching a critical point. In the summer of 1885, meetings were being held across the country to address what was increasingly seen as a failure of the law to protect children from exploitation. One such meeting took place in Darlington, where speakers gathered to press for reform of the criminal law and greater protection for working-class girls.

At the heart of these discussions was the age of consent. At the time of Sarah’s trial, a girl could legally consent to sexual relations at just thirteen years old. This legal fiction sat uneasily alongside the realities of domestic service, poverty, and power imbalance, and it was increasingly criticised as offering protection to men rather than to children. Speakers at the Darlington meeting pointed to recent cases, including that of Sarah Dunn, as stark examples of how young girls could be failed first by society, and then punished when the consequences of that failure became unbearable.

Much of the urgency surrounding reform had been driven by the investigative work of the Pall Mall Gazette, whose exposure of the sexual exploitation of girls in London shocked the public and forced the issue into the national conscience. These revelations lent weight to arguments that the law was not merely outdated, but actively complicit in harm. As one speaker observed, the same society that offered little protection to young girls was often swift to condemn them when tragedy followed.

Later that year, Parliament passed the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885. Among its provisions was a long-overdue change: the age of consent was raised from thirteen to sixteen. While the Act could not undo what had already happened, to Sarah Dunn or to others like her, it marked a recognition that childhood vulnerability could no longer be ignored or dismissed.

Sarah’s case was not the sole cause of this change, but it formed part of the wider moral landscape in which reform became unavoidable. Her story exposed the imbalance at the heart of Victorian justice: a system that demanded responsibility from a child, while offering her little protection in return. In that sense, the law changed too late for Sarah, but not, perhaps, without her.