This account, Sir, has a nice dramatic close. Inspector Simpson and I went to visit Dr Palmer, where he sat at dinner, and told him that, as agents of The Midland, we had made inquiries into the proposal for Bate's life, and found it based on falsehood. He laughed and said: 'I'm sorry, Inspector Field, that you have had this trouble. The proposal to insure my overseer's life was a practical joke played on the poor innocent by some of my friends. I can only think that Mr Smith’s clerk must have forwarded the proposal to The Midland in error, not realizing its farcical nature. Mr Smith will doubtless be glad to reimburse the company for whatever expenses they have incurred.'
I replied solemnly: 'That may be as it may be, Dr Palmer. But I regret to inform you that my colleague and I are empowered by The Prince of Wales to investigate the circumstances of your brother Walter's death. Our report has already gone to the London Office: that he seems to have been unfairly dealt with. We intend, moreover, to push our inquiries further.'
I never witnessed such impassivity in all my life! Both Inspector Simpson and I expected that Dr Palmer, who is a powerful man, would leap from his chair and attempt to knock us down. He did not even stir, but continued to cat his steak and kidney pie— which he politely invited us to share—with complete unconcern. At last he observed: 'Quite right. I have my own suspicions of that fellow Walkenden; I fear he didn't carry out either Dr Day's advice or my own.'
Chapter XIII
'TWO NARROW SHAVES'
JOHN PARSONS COOK was an aristocratic-looking young man in his late twenties: tall, slim, thin-faced, sallow-complexioned, with long hair, a slight whisker, and a slight moustache. At the races, he sported a well-cut, rust-coloured coat, blue waistcoat, dove-grey trowsers, a beaver hat and a loose, long-sleeved overcoat. A gold cable-guard dangled from his watch, and two or three valuable rings sparkled on his fingers. He resided at Lutterworth in Leicestershire and, when he came of age, had inherited some fifteen thousand pounds; thereupon abandoning his profession as solicitor and addicting himself to the Turf. Cook was much liked for his generosity, scrupulousness in money matters, and gentle ways; but he had got into bad company and, after five or six years of keeping racehorses, found himself financially embarrassed.
His chest being weak, he formed the habit of consulting a London physician who happened to be an old family friend. Early in June, 1855, he visited this Dr Savage, complaining of a sore throat and eruptions or sores in his mouth. Cook did not disclose that he had suffered from venereal disease, but admitted to taking mercury for the sores, as advised by Dr Palmer—who regarded them as marking a secondary stage of this dreadful scourge. Dr Savage examined Cook's throat, found nothing amiss except that certain of its organs were somewhat thickened, prescribed tonics and sounded his chest. At the close of the examination during which, however, he did not invite Cook to remove his nether garments, Dr Savage pronounced: 'With care and common sense you will yet live to be a hundred, my dear boy. But, pray take my advice and break with that company of turfmen, legs and idlers with whom I saw you at Epsom Races last week—the very worst of whom is that dissolute Dr Palmer. I warrant he'll rob you again and again. Sell your string of horses—that's your best course— abandon the Turf, go to Switzerland for a couple of years, taking your law-books with you. There study them attentively, and return with a strong chest and a clear eye to adorn the profession which you have so long neglected.'
Cook sighed, and said: 'I'm afraid, Dr Savage, your advice comes a little too late. You don't know the worst, and I can't tell it you.'
'But, John,' Dr Savage expostulated, 'why act like a beast? You were always a good-hearted, sensible lad until you inherited that accursed money. I felt ashamed for your family's sake a week ago when I saw you riding back from the Derby! I happened to be close behind your dray, and watched the disgraceful proceedings from the very edge of the racecourse onwards. You threw a pin-cushion at the head of a solemn-looking gentleman in his four-wheeler, and caused him severe pain. When he quite naturally resented the assault, your ruffians discharged a volley of musical pears, snuff-boxes, dolls, china ink-wells and coloured balls at him —the whole range of "knock-'em-down" prizes won at the Epsom sideshows. Next, you stormed a van of cheap crockery, and occasioned the wretched owner many shillings worth of loss. Then out came the pea-shooters, and every carriage, cab, or omnibus that you overtook was assailed with your chaff, obscene vituperation and peas. You bombarded the windows of Cheam and Sutton with further peas. Your post-horns, which had been turned into goblets that day by the insertion of a cork in each mouthpiece, were now post-horns again, and blew defiant, sentimental or drunken notes.
'You pulled up at The Cock in Sutton High Street, and so much brandy went down during your short stay that even the driver lost his head. I halted, too, in my gig, determined to keep an eye on you in case of accidents. Off you drove once more, and close by Kennington Gate my presentiments were justified. You ran into a fly containing an elderly tallow-chandler and his wife, and "upset the whole biling'', as I heard one of your elegant comrades exult. You drove away, half a minute later, as if nothing had happened; leaving me to take care of the tallow-chandler, whose scalp was cut open, and his badly bruised wife, who had fainted.'
Cook looked abashed. 'Yes, we were all intoxicated,' he confessed. ' It had been a good day for us. I hope you found nothing wrong with the old gentleman's head that vinegar and brown paper couldn't cure? Dr Palmer, at any rate, handed him his card and offered to pay the damage done to the fly.'
'Dr Palmer gave him a card, as you say’ continued Dr Savage, 'but not his own! It was the Marquess of Anglesey's card, and his lordship angrily rejected the imputation that he had been in any way responsible for the accident.'
'Palmer's always a fellow for larks,' said Cook sheepishly, 'but he's very good-hearted. I'm sure he proffered the wrong card by mistake.'
'Dr Palmer's a calculating rogue,' pronounced Dr Savage, 'to which I may add that it does you no credit to be known as the intimate of a reputed horse-poisoner; a man who defaulted in the payment of a bet five years ago, and was consequently refused admission to Tattersall's Ring; who defaulted again the following year, and was forbidden by the stewards of the Jockey Club to run Ins horse Goldfinder in any race they managed until he had paid up. None of the first-class betting-men, several of whom are my patients, will receive him.'
'All this I have heard, and more besides,' answered Cook, with a gloomy frown, 'but one judges of a man as one knows him, and he's been very kind to me.'
After this, Cook continued to visit Dr Savage every few weeks; the last occasion being a fortnight before his death. The tonics which the doctor prescribed had by that time improved his health and dispersed the sores in his mouth.
The Attorney-General's opening speech for the Prosecution was fairly temperate, later he developed a marked prejudice against Dr Palmer, as a result, we believe, of what he heard casually on the second day of the trial, from Frank Swindell, his Turf-agent.
Swindell is a man of humble origin; he began as a cleaner of engines in a Derby firearms factory, but by judicious betting gathered together enough money to buy himself a well-placed public house. Dissatisfied with a life of perpetually serving beer by day, and making books at night, he determined, since he could not be one of the 'nobs', that he would at least sun liimself in their society, and become necessary to them. He has now amassed a sizeable fortune by bookmaking, and moved into a pleasant small house on the east side of Berkeley Square, between Hay Hill and Bruton Street. There his shrewd wit, his independence of mind, combined with politeness, and his honesty—as honesty is understood on the Turf, where no strictly honest man can ever prosper —have won him many friends. I daresay, being born a Swindell, he finds more call to guard his reputation than some of his less invidiously named competitors: such as Bob Playfair, Jack Good-fellow, Harry Trueman, and Sam Shillingsworth. He has a wonderful fund of humorous stories, and we hear that no Diocesan Conference could remain unmoved by laughter were he to
deliver his monologue about wedding customs at Oldham, or describe his accidental visit to the British Museum which, on first corning to London, he mistook for another sort of establishment altogether. Swindell used to back horses on Dr Palmer's behalf, but never forgave him for one day repudiating a gambling debt made verbally and not supported by a signed commission.
On the second day of the trial, then, the Attorney-General called on Swindell to discuss chances for the approaching Derby over a bottle of claret. George Hodgman was there—a young bookmaker in good repute—and we have this account from him.
Swindell opened by telling the Attorney-General that, so far as he knew, a certain horse was safe enough: the owner, running him to win, had engaged detectives as watchers by day and night, lest any attempt were made to nobble him—as with Wild Dayrell in 1854. This reference was made in compliment to Hodgman who, that year, had received a letter from a 'dangerous party' suggesting an appointment 'to our mutual advantage'. When he kept this appointment, the leg said: 'Lay against Wild Dayrell; get all you can out of him, and think of me when you rake in the jimmy o'goblins.' Hodgman cried: 'Hey, whoa! I don't understand. Can Wild Dayrell really be dead meat?' 'That's it,' the leg agreed, 'he's due to be settled.' Said Hodgman: 'I'm much obliged, but I'm afraid you've come to the wrong shop. I don't wish to be mixed up in this business.' The leg whined: 'Well, as you say you won't act, I suppose you can at least be trusted not to interfere?' Hodgman nodded; yet as soon as the leg had slipped away, he jumped into a cab and whipped off to Frank Robinson's house in Bishopsgate Street. Frank Robinson, who had been charged with the London backing by the stable, immediately took train to Hungerford where Wild Dayrell was in training, and warned old Rickaby that the nobblers were after his horse. Rickaby pounced on a stableboy whom he suspected and, without a word of explanation, pitched him neck and crop out of the stable. Wild Dayrell was then even more carefully guarded than before; and when the day came, he won from Kingstown by two clear lengths—much to the satisfaction of Hodgman, who had backed him heavily.
Thus invited by Fred Swindell, Hodgman told the Attorney-General: 'And now, Sir, I'll reveal the name of the "dangerous party". He was that little dwarf of a Dyke, who's always to be seen at Billy Palmer's side on the course. It's my guess that the nobbling had been arranged by Billy, who's a cool hand and can buy poisons without suspicion, being a qualified surgeon.'
The Attorney-General asked Swindell: 'Do you know anything about the business, Fred?'
'No, Sir,' Swindell replied, 'nothing definite; but seeing that you're engaged in prosecuting Palmer, I'll tell you what happened to me three years ago. Hodgy, here, has a couple of bedrooms and a sitting-room reserved for him every year at The Swan Hotel, Wolverhampton, for the August Meeting. As you know, the Handicap is a rare betting race, both before and on the day. In fact, there's more money won and lost over it than over almost any other handicap in the country. So we don't like to be away from Wolverhampton when the fun's on, Hodgy and I don't. . . Well, Hodgy couldn't go down that year, because of a death in his family, so I asked him for permission to use his lodgings. "Certainly, Fred," says Hodgy. "But tell me, whom are you going with?" "Billy Palmer or Rugeley," says I. Hodgy answers —now, didn't you, Hodgy?—"All right, Fred, but take my advice and be wary of your pal. He who sups with the Devil must use a long spoon!" "Well," I said, "I've heard tales about him and I think they're all flam. By the bye, Billy Palmer says he has a good thing in Doubt for the Handicap. Though I've put him five hundred pounds at seven to one against, you'd better risk a 'pony' on the mare, lad. Don't be misled by her form in the Liverpool Spring Cup; she's come on a deal since then. I'm taking a chance on her myself." '
'I remember that race,' the Attorney-General remarked ruefully. 'I laid on Pastrycook and lost four hundred guineas.'
Swindell laughed. 'And if Doubt had lost too, Sir, we shouldn't be drinking this bottle of claret together! Come, let me spin you the yarn of how I was doctored for death in case of her defeat. Nay, Sir, I assure you, Billy Palmer would think no more of poisoning a man to gain his ends than a chemist would of dosing a mangy cat or a decrepit dog. On the Saturday night, then, as we sat in our private room at The Swan, drinking brandy and water, I asked him: "Why do you always empty your glass at one gulp, Doctor, instead of sipping at it, and prolonging the pleasure?"
Billy explained that, in the first place, he gained more flavour by so doing and, in the second, he found the practice less intoxicating. "Why not try it?" Billy asked. I did so, and certainly the flavour was fuller; but by Heaven! how sick the drink made me! I put my gripings down to the shellfish we had eaten—one should never eat shellfish in the Midlands, especially during August—and, still feeling pretty queer the next day, I told him: "Billy, I'm not seeing out the race tomorrow; I'm for home." "Nonsense," said he, "you can't miss all the fun. I'll give you some pills that will set you right." Remembering Hodgy's warning, I replied: "No, I'm off." However, he persuaded me to stay (for, indeed, I wasn't fit for a ride in the train) by saying: "If you like, I'll get a second opinion for you. There's another doctor in this hotel." He went out and fetched a person named Thirlby . . .'
'His own assistant, ha!' exclaimed the Attorney-General.
' So I understand now,' agreed Swindell, 'though I didn't know it at the time; and the man's not a qualified doctor, but a mere country chemist. Thirlby advised me against travelling, for my bowels were turned to water, as the Psalmist says, and it would have been an awkward journey." Dr Palmer is treating you admirably," Thirlby assured me, when told what the pills contained. "You couldn't be in better hands." '
'I wonder how much Thirlby knows?' the Attorney-General ruminated.
'On Monday,' Swindell went on, 'I was no better, but weak, very weak, and my mind had clouded over, though I foolishly continued to swallow Billy's pills. That was Handicap day. Of the nine starters, Musician and Pastrycook were the most fancied, but the odds had shortened on Doubt—she started at five to one. Neither Musician nor your own fancy, Sir, gained a place, although Montagu seemed like a winner until Sharpe, who was at his best that season, pulled Doubt ahead to finish in the lead by half a length. Well, The Swan Hotel stands close to the course, and the crowd was roaring like a stormy sea off Dover; yet how could I bring myself to care what beast won or lost? It hadn't occurred to me, do you see, that if Doubt came in first, which (not to pun upon her name) was far from certain, Billy Palmer stood to make three thousand five hundred pounds, as well as securing the stakes; but that he was protecting himself against the danger of losing his five hundred pounds by doctoring me to death—for every fool knows that "death before settling day voids the wager". Thanks be to the Almighty, despite Billy's having jeopardized my existence by his damned poisons, all was well. Doubt ran for my life, and brought it off! If I were to die, Billy would lose the three thousand five hundred pounds I owed him, so he hared back from the course, not troubling to acknowledge the congratulations of his supporters, and burst like a whirlwind into my bedroom. In the twinkling of an eye he and Thirlby had me out of bed before a big fire, and began rubbing the calves of my legs. Then they poured some exceedingly hot soup into me, and within a couple of hours I felt somewhat recovered, but weak as a newborn pup. It was a narrow shave, a near tiling, a deuced near thing!'
'Fred,' said the Attorney-General, 'I can't understand how you ever had the heart to do business with Palmer again! But I'm sure to hang him—sure!'
'Oh, go easy with him,' said Hodgman, grinning. 'He was only giving Fred a little purge to reduce his weight. Fred could well afford to lose a couple of stone.'
'Easy?' cried the Attorney-General, 'yes, I'll go easy, by God! You mark my words, I'll hang him for that! I don't think poor Cook is much loss to the world, but if my Fred had perished untimely, where should I be?'
Though not believing Swindell's story to be wholly fictitious, we cannot rule out his prejudice against Dr Palmer. In our opinion, tainted shellfish are just as likely as not to have caused Swinde
ll's stomachic disorder; nor was Swindell ever above improving a story beyond all recognition. The symptoms reported by him were vague enough; the remedy said to have been prescribed is more dramatic than plausible—how came a large fire in his room at the very height of summer?—and if Dr Palmer drank a couple or more tumblers of brandy and water at a gulp, he was never seen to do so before or since. Moreover, his supposed gains at Wolverhampton do not correspond with what is known of his financial position a week later. Nor do we believe that he ever purposely dosed a man to death: the Abley case having been, in our opinion, a pure mischance.
Equally dubious is the story told by Tom, the Boots at The Junction Hotel, Stafford, whom we have been at pains to question. The hotel stable is in the courtyard, a low-roofed, whitewashed building with stalls for five horses. On one side a ladder stands flat against the wall, up which one climbs to the hayloft. Here Tom sleeps: a ragged, ferret-faced young man, notable for a cast in one eye and a very strong bodily smell compounded of liquor, blacking, stable and foul linen. Tom is a proud man these days: a local celebrity, a victim of Dr Palmer's poisoning who has lived to tell the tale. He declares that, after his interview with Inspectors Field and Simpson, Dr Palmer met him on the road between The Junction and the railway station, and asked: 'Tom, what will you have?'
The rest of the story is best told in Tom's own words, and he must here be imagined rubbing his hair to shine up his thoughts, then picking his nails as though the dirt they concealed were the evidence he was seeking, and finally crouching on a stone mounting block, knees to chin, and hugging his ill-shaped boots—which, for a Boots' boots, are singularly devoid of polish.