At this moment, what he had been dreading for so long, at last happened. A knock sounded at the door; Eliza Tharm opened it, and in came two Sheriff's officers to arrest the Doctor for forgery. Bate was ordered from the room while they performed their duty, but as soon as both had retired downstairs, Dr Palmer summoned him again, put the bank-note in the envelope, and said: 'George, take this to the Coroner at once. Let nobody see you!'
Bate protested: 'Nay, Mister, can't you send someone else? I don't like this hole-and-corner game, indeed I don't, not with the Police in the house.'
'Why, George,' Dr Palmer answered, 'as to this poor fellow Cook, they'll find no poison in him. He was the best pal I ever had in my life—why should I have poisoned him? I'm as innocent as you are, George.'
Bate therefore took the missive which, an hour later, catching Mr Ward on the road between Stafford railway station and The Junction Hotel, he handed to him with a knowing wink. Mr Ward angrily crumpled and thrust it into his pocket. The envelope, when opened, contained no letter, but only the £$ note, and a message scribbled on a piece of newspaper: 'I understand that France, the poulterer, was one pheasant short of my order. This I sincerely regret. W.P.'
The inquest was finally held on the next day, Friday, December 14th. Elizabeth Mills, Lavinia Barnes, Dr Jones, Dr Bamford, who were the principal witnesses, testified that Cook had suffered first from vomiting, and then from tetanic convulsions. Professor Taylor, however, argued that these convulsions were produced by strychnia, even though he and Dr Rees had been unable to find traces of such a drug in the organs sent them for analysis.
'With a nicely calculated dose,' Professor Taylor wrote, 'this was not to be expected, since strychnia is a poison rapidly absorbed into the blood.'
Roberts, assistant to Messrs Hawkins, the chemists, then testified that he had sold Dr Palmer six grains of strychnine on the Tuesday morning. Newton kept quiet about his gift to the Doctor of the earlier three grains; and the eye-witnesses' account of Cook's illness was strictly as we have recorded it in the foregoing chapter.
The Coroner invited Dr Palmer to give evidence, but he sent word that illness prevented him from attending. It has been said, by the way, that the Sheriff's officers prompted this plea, not wanting him to escape.
On the following day the jury retired. Some minutes later, disregarding a plain conflict of testimony; misdirected by the Coroner, who perhaps wished to assure the Police that the proffered bribes had not warped his judgement; and, finally, stirred up by their foreman, Mr Tunnicliffe, Newton's father-in-law, they returned a verdict of 'Wilful Murder' against Dr Palmer.
Captain Hatton, to whom the Coroner had forwarded the incriminating letters, made the arrest. Ben Thirlby was sitting by Dr Palmer's bedside at the time, and felt so convinced of his innocence that he leaped at the Captain and tried to seize him by the throat. 'The charge is wicked and diabolical!' he cried. But the Police officers gave Thirlby a rough handling for his pains. Dr Palmer then summoned Jeremiah Smith, who delayed half an hour before he dared comply, first fortifying himself at The Albion public bar. 'This news makes me feel sick,' said he.
Smith, it should be explained, had fallen in disgrace with old Mrs Palmer on the Monday night—the night on which Newton handed Dr Palmer the three grains of stiychnine. After bidding
Cook good-night, he and Dr Palmer had gone together to The Yard, where the old lady gave them both a terrible brushing down. Having been informed by her son George, the solicitor, that a moneylender wanted him to certify her signature on an acceptance of a bill for two thousand pounds, which he had refused to do, she now charged Smith with drafting this document for her Billy.
'I know well,' she cried, 'that Billy here would never have expected me to pay. This was just his way of tiding himself over a bad situation—but that you aided and abetted him and said never a word to me, I cannot forgive! Be off now, Mr Smith, I don't want to see your treacherous face ever again. It's not even as if you'd been faithful to my bed.'
When Smith at last entered the bedroom, he saw Dr Palmer surrounded by Police officers. Pointing to them, he gasped out: 'William, oh, William, how is dris?'
The Doctor could not answer, but tears trickled down his cheeks.
He was judged unfit to be moved until the next day, when the Police, after examining his house from attic to cellar, and taking close precautions against his attempted escape or suicide, conveyed him in a covered van to Stafford Gaol. He had bidden an affecting good-bye to Eliza Tharm, throwing his arms around her neck, and requited her love with the gift of his last £50 note. Their illegitimate child, by the bye, had died at five weeks old, not long before this: it was sent out to a poor nursing mother near the Canal Bridge at Armitage, three miles from Rugeley, but she neglected her charge.
Samuel Cheshire was presently arrested on a charge of tampering with the Royal Mails. Dr Palmer's letter to Mr Webb Ward provided the Postal Authorities with the necessary evidence and he earned a severe prison sentence.
Chapter XVIII
STAFFORD GAOL
WHILE describing Stafford town, in an earlier chapter, we purposely reserved our account of the ' County Gaol and House of Correction' until this story should reach the point where Dr Palmer entered it as an inmate. It has very much the appearance of a solid, squat brick castle, because of the round towers placed at its four corners, and the steep outer walls which connect them. The pile gives off a glare like the embers of a coal furnace. The principal entrance, however, is built of stone, and we found it quite refreshing to approach its cool shade.
Facing the porter's lodge stands the Governor's house, with a little bit of garden stretched before it; but the grass seems to know that it is prison grass and therefore denied all such luxuries as manure or prepared soil. The beds grow no flowers worthy of notice, and are rich only in flints. A pathway leads thence to the debtors' airing court, a sizeable gravelled square surrounded by white-painted wooden railings; and next to this rises the prison bakehouse from which proceeds a hum of machinery and a grinding noise. The power that turns the millstones is that of a tread-wheel, worked by thirty-two felons, in prison-grey, trudging for an hour at a time up the endless stairs which turn away beneath their feet. Prison officers armed with cudgels discourage the rebellious or the laggardly from a neglect of their task. The result is both a sensation of health produced by wholesome exercise, which many of the felons are taking for the first time in then-disorderly lives, and a large quantity of flour—not perhaps of the highest quality, yet passed as fit for human consumption. Through the bakehouse windows may be seen great stacks of bread, baked into slabs three inches thick, which are then sawn into yard lengths and piled together in orderly fashion, like planks of rare timber at a cabinet-maker's shop. Square loaves, such as free men eat, are suspect as serving to conceal such forbidden objects as bottles of
spirits, rope-ladders, and weapons of destruction, smuggled in with the grain.
When Dr Palmer reached the Gaol, he still felt ill; and, immediately donning nightcap and nightshirt, went to bed again. Major Fulford, the Governor, took advantage of this removal of his clothes to remove them even farther, fearing that poison might be concealed in them. He ordered another suit to be made for Dr Palmer, not of prison-grey, since he was not yet a convict, but of a sober broadcloth. However, he declined to wear these new clothes, insisting that the Governor had no right to force them on him, and that they were badly cut. His wilfulness convinced the prison officers that poison must surely lurk in the seams or corners of coat, waistcoat or trousers; two or three grains of prussic acid or strychnine would, of course, suffice to end his life. When, a fortnight later, his own clothes were at last returned, every garment had been searched with a fine comb and beaten hard to dislodge any powder. All the seams had also been opened; all the buttons examined lest one of them should serve as a miniature poison-box; the heels unfastened from his boots, lest these too should serve as receptacles for poison, and put back after careful scrutiny.
Much as Dr Palmer hated sleeping alone, almost more he hated being cut off from the racing news; but the Governor had strong views on the subject of horse-racing and gambling and let him read no newspaper which contained any talk of 'form' and 'odds'. In his despondency, Dr Palmer determined on self-destruction. No easy means offered, however, since he might use neither knife nor fork for his meals, ate off a tin plate and drank from a tin mug. He therefore resolved on starvation, simply sipping a little water from time to time, and lying motionless in bed, his face turned towards the wall. The Governor, during his usual morning visit, became alarmed by this behaviour, and tried to argue him into eating. Dr Palmer replied courteously that he was not hungry, and wanted nothing. Since, by the seventh day of this obstinate abstention from food, his prisoner had lost a stone of weight and seemed in danger of making good his resolve, the Governor had a savoury bowl of soup prepared, and sent for a spoon and a stomach-pump.
He told Dr Palmer that, according to the prison doctor, his pulse was regular, his looks those of a healthy man, and there seemed no reason why he should not partake of this succulent soup.
'It's only that I have no appetite for coarse food,' Dr Palmer murmured faintly.
'Then, Sir,' cried the Governor, 'you shall choose between this spoon and that other instrument! I don't care a fig (let me be frank) whether you live or die, except in so far as my own appointment is concerned. But if I pander to your desire for self-extinction, my superiors will punish me severely; which I do not intend to happen. You have five minutes to decide whether you will drain your bowl, or oblige me to take compulsory measures. In the latter case, I shall summon a force of officers, of whom I have fifty at my orders, wedge open your jaws, drop the tube of this pump down the gullet, and pretty soon soup will be warming your stomach. It is by no means the pleasantest way of eating, but what other recourse have I?'
Dr Palmer said: 'I had not considered, Sir, that my loss of appetite might endanger your appointment here. And though I don't welcome your poor opinion of me—which I find unbecoming when I'm not yet pronounced guilty, and won't be, neither— nevertheless, if you insist, I'll consent to drink the damned beverage with your greasy spoon.'
He gave no further trouble in this respect, beyond asking one day that meals might be sent to him from his own kitchen. The Governor refused this, for fear poison might be conveyed in the dishes, but told him that he was at liberty to order what victuals he pleased, within reason, for cooking in the debtors' kitchen. 'Ah, but it's not the same,' sighed Dr Palmer. 'Your prison cooks murder good food.'
'I trust at least that they do not poison it,' tartly retorted the Governor.
Meanwhile, numerous bills fell due which Dr Palmer could not, and old Mrs Palmer would not, meet. One morning Mr Wright, a solicitor from Birmingham, arrived at Dr Palmer's house and demanded admittance in virtue of a bill of sale to the amount of £10,400 given by Palmer some six months before for his horses, furniture, and all other movable property.
Mr Bergen, the Rural Superintendent of Police, who was now charged with safeguarding the papers, drugs, and other contents of the house, refused to admit Mr Wright; however, one of Mr Wright's men presently gained an entry by breaking a pane of glass in the scullery window and unlatching it. Once inside the house, the Law protected Mr Wright, and arrangements were soon made for selling off the Doctor's effects by public auction.
We gather from Mrs Bennett, a next-door neighbour whose husband is a shoemaker, that if it had been Prince Albert's own sale there couldn't have been more folks about. They flocked in from Birmingham and all around, coming only to gaze, not to buy. The sale, according to the catalogue, should have occupied three days, but was got over in ten hours.
'The business was altogether too hurried,' Mrs Bennett told us. 'If the things had been brought out into the open air they would have fetched more; but the auctioneer didn't allow the bidders time. It was along of the crowds that tramped through the house and prevented dealers from examining the articles at leisure. Nobody could see what was what, and the auctioneer wanted to get done quickly; even so, a mort of small things got stolen as souvenirs. The books, most of them new and up to date, were almost given away. And the furniture was beautiful!'
Mr Fawcus, a cabinet-maker, who stood waiting for Mr Bennett to finish cobbling a pair of boots, agreed with Mrs Bennett. 'Yes, Sir, the furniture was very good indeed, and not merely the pieces that I made at his orders according to Sheraton's models. I know he paid forty guineas for a sideboard—that's large money —and sixteen for a chiffonier. He had excellent taste in furniture.'
Mrs Bennett fetched us the catalogue: Contents of drawing-room: one fine-toned semi-grand pianoforte in rosewood by a celebrated London maker. 'Poor Mrs Palmer used to accompany herself on that, while singing Thomas Moore's Irish Songs,' Mrs Bennett said.' She had a sweet voice. But the pianoforte went for a song—no joke intended.'
Rosewood couch with spring seat, squab and pillow in blue damask, and six elegant rosewood chairs in suite. 'My work,' said Mr Fawcus. 'Bought at the sale by Mr Bergen, the Rural Superintendent of Police, whose daughter took a fancy to them. He'd have bidden up to the original price, he would, but there was no competition —there isn't likely to be when Mr Bergen bids—so he got them cheap, and afterwards told me: "Fawcus, these people here, they don't know good stuff when they see it." He's a very knowing gentleman.'
Handsome mahogany bookcase, six foot by nine foot long, with plate-glass and sliding shelves. 'That went at a better price to the Hon.
Mr Curzon's steward.' Pair of handsome chimney-glasses. 'Those were in the same lot,' remarked Mr Fawcus, 'big as chimney-pots, and real cut crystal.'
Contents of best bedroom: handsome German bedstead with panelled footboard, carved cornice andfringe, andfigured damask hangings. 'Ah,' said Mrs Bennett, ' that's where poor Mrs Palmer bore her unfortunate children, and where she died, and where the Doctor was lying when arrested.'
'It's a good deal too heavy and fanciful for my taste,' confessed Mr Fawcus, 'but then I'm English, as you see. It was old Mrs Palmer's wedding gift to the Doctor, and she bought it back. I think she wished to show that she hasn't lost faith in her son, despite all the ugly rumours.'
'Which I don't believe, neither,' cried Mrs Bennett, 'whatever the Coroner may say, and the Judge, and the jury, and Captain Hatton, and Mr Bergen and all! It made my ears burn to hear some of the comments, dropped by those ill-mannered Birmingham folks as they roamed the house. They'd whisper: "That's where the wicked devil used to sleep with his mistresses." And when they came to the surgery, the remarks they passed about the bottles there was perfectly sinful!'
Contents of dining-room: eight fine Elizabethan carved oak chairs with seats upholstered in purple plush velvet. Also two valuable oil paintings: 'Charles Marlow, the jockey, with Nettle' and ‘Goldfinder’, Winner of the Queens Plate at Shrewsbury' 'Twenty-five shillings a chair, just imagine!' exclaimed Mr Fawcus, 'originally purchased by the Doctor for four guineas, and a bargain at that! And the pictures went for five shillings, the frames alone being worth a guinea.'
'All that I bought,' said Mrs Bennett, 'was a nice deal box containing fishing tackle and pills. The Police didn't seem to mind the pills being sold and, of course, I burned them in the grate to keep them out of the children's clutches. "A box of fishing tackle is a funny place to put pills in," the auctioneer told us. But the tackle was a bargain at a shilling. My husband enjoys his bit of fishing of a Sunday afternoon, and the box was handy for garden tools.'
'The only fair prices were paid for the Doctor's cellar,' chimed in Mr Fawcus. 'He had 222 gallons of home-brewed ale, according to the catalogue, 67 dozen of port, and 43 gallons of spirit. A very fine cellar for so abstemious a man. It never occurred to the innkeepers who bid for them that every bottle might contain rank poison; they were a deal less suspicious than the officers at Stafford Gaol.'
We strolled round to the back of the house, where the garden stretches—half an acre of l
and 'in very good fettle,' as Mr Fawcus called it. The low hedge dividing the courtyard from the garden has been carefully clipped, and the small garden in front of the house, with a little pile of imitation rock to spruce it up, is thoroughly well tended. Though we noticed at least six beds of leeks and spring onions, a patch about the size of his drawing-room carpet was all the space Dr Palmer devoted to flowers. The beds, cut out of the turf in curious shapes, such as stars and lozenges, contained only a few pinks and wallflowers.
We came across a well-built stable and coach-house with a pear-tree trained against the brick wall facing the noon sun, and a horseshoe nailed to the door. The large tank is of slate and clean rainwater flows into it for horses' drinking—soft water improves their health. In one corner, next a pigsty, a manure tank is sunk, into which the slush of the stable and piggery formerly drained; there being a pump to raise the liquid as it was required for the cultivation of vegetables. All these improvements to the property had been added by Dr Palmer.
Following the kitchen garden path, where clothes poles and the cord along them formed a kind of telegraph, we found a fine rhubarb bed, behind which grew forty gooseberry and currant bushes, all neatly pruned. And beyond these, we suddenly came on a gendeman in check coat and trousers sitting on an upturned oyster barrel. He rose and addressed us in a hoarse Manchester accent, pressing upon us a tradesman's card which we reproduce on the following page.
We thanked Mr Allen, but informed him that another day would suit us better. 'Oh, that's all right, bless you, Sir,' he said, 'I don't want for custom. The number of fashionably dressed folks who journey over here from the surrounding districts for a sight of Dr Palmer's house, barred and empty as it is, still astounds me. It's early yet for the rush, which don't commence much before noon. I do very well indeed from them, and take their portraits standing gainst the stable door, with one hand on the pear-tree to steady 'em. Yes, Sir, 'tis a superb place for my trade.