From what we have learned at Rugeley, Dr Palmer made game of the talk that went on about h;m. He would greet old friends in The Bell or The Shoulder of Mutton with a rollicking: 'Here comes the poisoner!' and then, turning to Jack, or Harry, or Bill, would ask:4 And what's your poison, lad ? Prussic acid or arsenic ?'
'What's your poison?' has since become a proverbial greeting in the inns of Staffordshire on Dr Palmer's account.
Chapter X
ENGLISH CHOLERA
THE following account of by far the most tragic event in Dr Palmer's life has been kindly supplied by Dr Salt's daughter, Annie Palmer's closest friend.
MISS SALT
One afternoon, in the September of 1854,1 found Annie Palmer in one of her blackest moods. When I tried to hearten her, she said: 'I'm afraid, dear child, all is over now. I have failed my husband both as a companion and as a wife. It would be unbecoming for me to entrust an unmarried girl like yourself with our marital secrets; but I daresay you have guessed how it can be with a young and vigorous husband ... He will want to make love constantly, and if his wife has a headache or happens to be feeling dull, she can't respond as she should, to his caresses. I try to hide my distaste for such encounters, but I can't deceive him always. It's only natural that he should get restive in consequence and, though he professes to love me as much as ever, his appetite remains unsatisfied.'
Here Annie paused, before making what seemed to be a very painful admission. 'That he has bedded with other women while away at distant race-meetings, I have no doubt; and while much disliking the notion, how can I blame him? Now, I fear, he has fallen deep in love with my own maid—yes, Eliza Tharm—who's eighteen years old and, as you know, full of life. Eliza's an honest girl. Yesterday she came to me and complained that "the Doctor, he's been acting very strange of late, Missus, pulling me about in the pantry and pretending to make love to me". "I hope you resisted him, Eliza," I asked, "like a good girl?" "Oh, yes, Missus," she answered ingenuously, "else I wouldn't have told you. And I hope as I always shall resist him, because it's not right, is it?—not under the same roof as a wife who's always treated me kind!'"
I suggested that Eliza should be dismissed at once, but Annie would not agree. 'Why make needless talk?' she said. 'I believe I can trust Eliza.'
'Did you charge Dr Palmer with the act?' I asked, feeling most indignant on my friend's behalf.
'I did, though not very directly,' she answered. 'He laughed and said he had just given the wench a good-humoured tweak and a slap or two, as she passed; but wouldn't ever do such a thing again, if I objected. He hadn't thought that the girl would take on so; it was only his way, he explained, of cheering her up and showing he wasn't as stiff as most medical men.'
'Did you believe him?' I inquired.
'Why, of course, my dear,' Annie replied, opening her eyes very wide. 'Will never deceives me.'
'But you have just told me that he's in love with the girl,' I insisted.
' Oh, I don't say the poor fellow doesn't deceive himself,' she answered with a sigh. 'The sooner I'm out of his way, the better!'
I reproached her for this shocking remark, and she begged that I would never mention the matter to anyone. And I haven't until today, when I no longer feel bound to silence.
But I told her: 'Annie, my dear, I hear in a roundabout way that he has insured your life for a considerable sum. What is the meaning of this?'
Annie smiled mysteriously, as she answered: 'It was I who suggested that he should take out a policy.'
Observing my look of wonder, she went on: 'You know that I greatly desire to leave this world. Perhaps I should add that with the desire goes a clear presentiment that I shall not live long; and therefore I told Will that he mustn't fail to insure himself against my sudden death. You see, I have an annuity, from my father, of two hundred pounds a year, which lasts only while I do, and it would be a great blow to Will were it cut off without warning. He listened most unwillingly, saying that mine was an unlucky notion, and that the premium would carve a deep hole in the value of the annuity. However, I won him to my view; and last January, Dr Knight and Dr Bamford, and Dr Monckton, all examined me and pronounced me a "good life". Now I am fully insured and need not worry on that score . . .'
Here I gave a slight cough and interrupted: 'But Annie, they tell me that you are over-insured—the premium paid would cover the risk of losing an annuity three or four times as valuable!'
Again she smiled mysteriously: 'I begged Will to set as great a value on my life as possible; and I'm glad he rates me so high. He's promised that if I die, he'll take Willie to your sister-in-law. She treasures him, and Willie's always happy as a lark at their house, far happier than at home, though he would never hurt my feelings by telling me so, he's such a dear, kind boy.'
'But Annie,' I continued, 'if three doctors testify to your being a good life, who are you to contradict them by an idle presentiment of death?'
She answered: 'I daresay they'd have testified the same for my poor mother when she was twenty-three years old, as I am now; yet she died of natural causes while in her early fifties. Besides, my annuity isn't the only inheritance that Father bequeathed me.'
I said no more, knowing that the Colonel and all his brothers, and his father before him, had suffered from suicidal melancholia. I guessed that what preyed on her mind was a new pregnancy, which she could not face with her former courage. The oftentimes disappointed hope for a healthy little sister, to be Willie's playmate and her darling, had worn quite thin by this time.
Next day, Annie was invited to accompany Dr Palmer's noble-hearted and sweetly charming sister Sarah on a visit to Liverpool. She appeared to be torn between desire for a holiday and fear lest her husband might press his siege of Miss Eliza. In the end she consented to go, but took the precaution of asking Mrs Bradshaw, their charwoman, to sleep in the house, on the ground that Dr Palmer would probably be away at the races, and Eliza feared to stay alone at night.
The sequel is now public knowledge. On Monday, September 18th, 1854, Annie went by train to Liverpool with Sarah, having bought tickets for a concert at St George's Hall, which she was anxious to hear. But she reposed too much trust in the weather; and on the following day attended the concert wearing a light summer dress. When the two friends emerged from the suffocatingly hot hall, they had to wait some time for a cab in a street swept by a bitter east wind. Annie caught a chill, but when they got back to the friends with whom they were lodging—none other than Mr Evans Senior, Dr Palmer's former employer— would not take Sarah's advice by retiring to bed. Instead, she stayed up and entertained the company by playing sentimental pieces on the pianoforte; she played very well, too. Whist and conversation then continued until a late hour. The next day, Wednesday, September 20th, her chill had worsened, yet after a parting luncheon of cold roast beef, pickles, and a glass of wine, Sarah and she took the train home. On her arrival at Rugeley, Annie was suffering from a violent looseness. She went to bed at once, without taking any food. The following morning, Dr Palmer fetched her a cup of sweet, milkless tea, which she vomited up.
Thereafter, Mrs Bradshaw prepared all her mistress's food: tea, toast, gruel, and once a little arrowroot, always first tasting it, but either Dr Palmer or Eliza Tharm brought it to the bedside. Dr Palmer diagnosed English cholera. Growing anxious when she was no better by Saturday, and still could not keep any food down, he sent for Dr Bamford. Since by now diarrhoea had given place to the opposite condition, Dr Bamford prescribed some pills containing calomel and colocynth, and an opening draught. On the Sunday, Sarah called, and Annie admitted that she felt very ill indeed. She added: 'You must not come here. Stay with your sick mother—she has you alone to rely on. Your brother George is worse than useless in the circumstances. I'm in safe hands.'
All this time I was away in London on a holiday, and had no inkling of what was afoot.
Dr Bamford called again on the Monday. Observing that only one of his pills had been taken, he engaged Anni
e in conversation. Yet she felt too reduced to answer his questions audibly and, besides, he is very deaf. Dr Bamford suggested that Dr Knight, Annie's former guardian, should be sent for from Stafford. Dr Palmer, now much distressed by her illness—especially since his mother was also seriously indisposed, and being nursed night and day by Sarah—at once summoned him by a telegraphic message. Dr Knight drove over, and saw Annie the same afternoon. He is even older and deafer than Dr Bamford, and had to rely on Dr Palmer for an account of her symptoms. Having listened carefully, he pronounced her to be dangerously sick, and gave orders that she must not take anything fluid or solid for three hours. Then he went out, called on Dr Bamford and a few friends, and finding his patient seemingly better when he called back, prescribed a small dose of diluted prussic acid to relieve the retching. In the evening he returned to Stafford.
According to Eliza Tharm (and I believe her), Dr Palmer was very attentive to Annie, constantly kissing her hands or brow, stroking her checks and appealing to her: 'Pray get well, darling! Make a strong endeavour, for my sake and little Willie's.' She smiled faintly up at him, and murmured: 'It's best this way.' He gave her effervescing mixtures, and she intimated that they were most refreshing and made her feel better. Meanwhile, Mrs Ann Rowley had taken Eliza's place as a day-nurse; but Eliza remained on night duty.
On the Thursday, Sarah came to visit Annie again, found her asleep and, not wishing to disturb her, stole away.
On the Friday, Ben Thirlby, called in as a last hope, prescribed brandy and arrowroot, but this was never given Annie; for she died about dinner time. It was September 29th; well I remember hearing the news at Rugeley railway station on my return that afternoon.
I immediately made it my business to question Eliza Tharm, Mrs Rowley, and Mrs Bradshaw. Mrs Bradshaw told me that she had tasted, as well as cooked, every item of food or drink that went up to the poor lady, except for the medicine, which wasn't her affair. This Mrs Bradshaw is a good, honest woman as ever lived; but I could see that she suspected Dr Palmer of poisoning her beloved mistress—for she threw him hateful looks. Mrs Rowley, on the other hand, trusted him completely, and testified to the sincere and beautiful love between the two. Annie had whispered to her once: 'I'd do anything in the world for him, Mrs Rowley, indeed I would; and he for me, I believe, don't you?'
When Annie was at her last, Mrs Rowley rang the bell for Dr Palmer. He tiptoed into the bedroom and stood hesitating, aghast at the change in Annie's face. Mrs Rowley said: 'I fear your wife's dying.' He appeared stunned and hurt. He didn't come quite round the bed, Mrs Rowley says, but remained at the foot, staring down at Annie with a dazed look. Then he walked away into the next room, Mrs Rowley doesn't know why, and though he was back only half a minute later, she had died in the meanwhile.
'She's gone,' sobbed Mrs Rowley, and the news sent him stumbling out again. Mrs Rowley sat by the bed for the best part of half an hour, hoping that she had been mistaken, and that Annie was only in a deep coma. When she at last rose to fetch Dr Palmer, he was found in the next room, straddling a chair, with his arms folded on the rail and staring stupidly before him. She took him by the shoulder, and whispered: 'Come, Doctor, be a man!' He seemed not to hear, so she poured a little brandy into a tumbler and set it to his lips. At this he came to himself, muttered: 'I think I must have been asleep,' rubbed his cold hands together, and returned to the deathbed, where Mrs Rowley left him to indulge his grief.
As soon as I could find the time, I sought out Eliza. A wild look in her eye informed me that she was frightened. I drew her into the small room used for*sewing, and said: 'My girl, you need have no fear. Dr Bamford, Dr Knight, and Mr Tnirlby have all signed the death certificate to say that your mistress died of English cholera. There'll be no Coroner's inquest, you may be sure. But I want the truth! Now, I suspect poison, though I cannot suspect Mrs Bradshaw, or Mrs Rowley, or Dr Palmer, or yourself, of wilfully murdering my beloved friend. If it were not manifestly impossible for her to poison herself without detection —except perhaps at Liverpool—I should think that she had taken her own fife. Come, speak up, or I'll call the Police!'
The strange story that Eliza told completely satisfied me of its truth. Annie had asked her to slip certain powders into the gruel or tea while nobody was watching: she pretended that they were a charm procured from a wise woman over at Abbot's Bromley, and designed to restore her husband's love. Eliza believed Annie, and did as she was bidden. On the Thursday night, Annie whispered: 'Let him know quietly, when it's all over, that I have done it because I love him so. Suicide is the second crime I've committed for love of him, Eliza; but I trust God will pardon me, as our dear Lord Jesus Christ pardoned the woman in the Gospel "because she loved much".' So Eliza guessed that the powders must have caused her mistress's death.
I have lately learned that the poison was antimony, which she probably read about in her husband's medical books, and of which he kept a supply in the surgery. Yet even if I had known of this at the time, I should still have concealed my knowledge. Annie was dead, dead by her own hand, though using Eliza as a cat's paw, and nobody came under the suspicion of administering poison. Eliza had acted not only innocently, but nobly; for I could see that she was deep in love with the Doctor herself. An ill-natured girl would never have put the love-philtres in a rival's gruel to make her more attractive. Why, then, should I stir up trouble by speaking the truth? Dr Palmer was, she had hinted, in a terrible state of indebtedness, and would be ruined but for the insurance which she had urged him to take on her life.
When I told Eliza: 'For your sake, I'll remain silent. You have been a good girl, I believe!', she fell on her knees and kissed my hands. She must have delivered Annie's message to the Doctor; as I judged from his behaviour at the funeral, where he stood in the pew, with tears coursing visibly down his face, and sobbing loudly throughout the service. When the sad moment came for the coffin to be lowered into the Palmer vault, he cried aloud: 'I want to die, O God! I want to go to Heaven, with my darling treasure!'
Afterwards he said to me: 'I shall never forget your love and loyalty to my poor wife! But oh, how desolate my life will be henceforth.' He laid a peculiar emphasis on the words 'love' and 'loyalty' which was, I suppose, his way of hinting that Eliza had reported our conversation, and that he thanked me for my promise to keep silent.
When the funeral had ended, he drove little Willie over to my brother's house, with all his clothes and toys, where my sister-in-law hugged him affectionately, saying: 'I'm your new mamma now, and hope you'll love me as I do you.' Dr Palmer promised to visit the child often and, what is more, kept his promise. He doted on Willie. But foul-minded people said that this was a sham, to conceal a guilty passion for my sister-in-law. How I detest this gossip-ridden town!
I puzzled for a long time about the other crime, besides suicide, to which Annie had confessed; but it is only lately that the truth has come out. Dr Palmer, I'm told, was in extreme difficulties for money, having borrowed from moneylenders at a ruinous rate of interest, and the sole security he could offer—except the racehorses, which he counted upon to restore his credit—was the fortune of his mother, old Mrs Palmer, reputedly worth seventy thousand pounds. She is a shrewd lady, however, and though doubtless he asked her help, must have been convinced that his one sure way out of trouble would be to declare himself bankrupt. Mrs Palmer loved him dearly and would afterwards, I feel certain, have relieved his distress—on condition that he promised to abandon the Turf and resume his medical career.
The Doctor is no hunting man; yet I can say, metaphorically, of his business career, that he has never been able to rein in his mount, nor does he baulk at any fence or five-barred gate. He rides straight ahead to his destruction. He decided to raise loans from the moneylenders on the security of old Mrs Palmer's estate, though without her knowledge; and this meant that he must forge her signature to every acceptance of indebtedness. But to imitate a female hand was beyond his power; so he persuaded Annie to commit the forgery. How
he overcame her scruples I can only guess: perhaps he assured her that this was no more than a temporary expedient, to satisfy a pressing creditor, and that money would come from another source within a few days, enabling him to regain and destroy the forged acceptance. At all events, for love of him she became guilty of a crime which, if detected, would have earned her a long prison sentence.
I believe myself that Annie's dawning realization of his inability to redeem these forged acceptances prompted her suicide. She hoped that the insurance money would straighten out his affairs, and trusted that her self-sacrifice would be a harsh enough lesson to make him abandon his spendthrift ways for ever.
My brother tells me that Dr Palmer profited to the extent of thirteen thousand pounds. At Annie's insistence, he had applied for insurance to the value of well over thirty thousand pounds at various first-rate offices, including (I believe) The Gresham, The Prince of Wales, The Scottish Equitable, The Atlas, The Norwich Union, and The Sun—of which Jeremiah Smith was the agent. After much correspondence and quibbling about terms, he had settled with The Prince of Wales for thirteen thousand pounds; and The Prince of Wales had sub-contracted with The Scottish Equitable and The Sun for three thousand pounds apiece. He nearly succeeded in getting twelve thousand pounds more from The Solicitors' and General, but that insurance fell through because, as it happened, they also tried to sub-contract with The Sun; and The Sun replied that they were already engaged to assist The Prince of Wales in insuring the very same person for thirteen thousand pounds. The Solicitors' and General smelt a rat. They knew that to insure the life of a woman who had an annuity of two hundred pounds, and no expectations, for a sum of twenty-five thousand pounds would be absurd: the premium must enormously exceed the value of the annuity.