They Hanged My Saintly Billy

Well, now, a colt begins with a dumb-jockey, which is a log we strap on his back when he's old enough to take the weight, and winch he flings off again and again until he gets tired of the sport, and doesn't kick and plunge quite so often. Presently we start the ringing: which is to bridle him, and then I stand with a whip in my hand and keep him a-going around me in a circle, the dumb-jockey on his back; and I don't care whether he runs, trots, plunges, gallops, or dances, so long as he keeps a-moving. When he's got the notion, we put ur> a lad instead of the log, and carry the game on. Before long he s ready for the trainer's, and we're done with him here.

It's like sending a young lord up from dame's school to Eton College. He takes his groom with him, as a footman, and the fees asked ain't any too low, I assure you! But there's this difference between Saunders' training establishment and Eton College: that the colt don't lead so irregular a life. There's no drinking rather too much claret on the sly, nor smoking more cigars than is good for the growing creature. At Saunders', they calculate his feed to the very grain of corn and thread of hay that will hold him in the pink of condition. And his drink is just as sharply watched, being calculated to the go-down—or gulp, if you please. When he's been in training for some weeks, Mr Will Saunders, he puts his own groom up for a trial run, and the colt is then placed with several others in what's called a 'string'. Then he's taken off at a gentle gallop, known as 'the pipe o' peace', and Saunders rides on one side, about the middle, and watches the action of each and every beast.

After the pipe o' peace, Saunders gives them all a clever going-over, to look out for injured legs or hoofs. Then they are bathed in warm water and bandaged, and perhaps they get gruel to drink, and bran mash instead of corn. I've heard Dr Palmer say: 'I'd a thousand times rather be a colt at Saunders', than a pauper in Stafford Infirmary!' Often the horses gain too much flesh—which never, by the way, happens to an Infirmary pauper, unless he suffers from the dropsy—and have to be sweated, which is done with extra cloths and cutting down of their feed . . . Believe me, it's a severe training, as much for the lads as for the horses.

Now, even at Rugeley, which is famed for its Horse Fair, and has its own race-course yonder, there's still many folk as green as you, Sir, who think that all the trouble and expense which an owner incurs in getting a beast into prime condition will invariably make him wish it to win races. They are also innocent enough to suppose that the best horse always wins, barring natural accidents. But let me put you right, Sir. You should bear in mind that, large though the Derby Stakes are, and many others, such as the St Leger and the Oaks, an owner's interest may not always require that his horse passes the post first; I mean, that it may frequently pay him better to lose . . .

Then why should one go to such trouble with the training, you ask? Why, to make the horse look as much like a winner as possible, don't you see?—and persuade those who think he's running on the square to back him heavily. Such bets are taken up by the owner's friends—though they're mighty careful not to show themselves as such, you may be bound—to a far greater amount than the value of the stakes.

Many's the time I've been given a last-minute stable tip-off, as we say, that such-and-such a horse ain't going to win a race, though the favourite; and to bet against him, however short the odds. And I've been present at the starting-post, and seen the admiring glance the owner casts at the beast. If I hadn't heard it muttered from the corner of the jockey's own mouth, I wouldn't in my heart but have believed that the owner was running the horse to win, and had staked his entire fortune on him. Yet the jockey has been ordered to 'rope him in', and so make him fall back out of the riinning while in full career. There's a double advantage to that little game: at the next Meeting the odds will be longer, and at the one after that, if the horse is roped again, longer still. When it's profitable for the owner to run the horse on the square, then he'll do so.

Another trick used to be played to prevent the best horse from winning, called the 'false start'. An owner entered two horses for the same race. One was meant to win, and the other to make the pace. When all the runners were stationed at the starting point, and the word 'Go!' rang out, the horse meant to win stood stock still, the others rushing off at a good gallop. That was a false start, the whole line not having started at the same time. So they were called back, and then sent off again, and after a couple of such false starts the horses were fatigued and irritated by these constant pullings-up; all except the horse kept back. He was fresh as paint, and at the third ' Go!' started boldly forward with every advantage in his favour; and very often won at long odds. But they've put a stop to that game now.

There's still the 'painted bit' game, however. The horse which the owner's laid against comes on the course in full vigour, and the jockey rides him to win. But there's poison smeared on the bit. Halfway along the course, the poor animal foams at the mouth, staggers, turns sick, and falls behind.

Now, to the best of my knowledge, Dr Palmer never played tricks of that sort on his own horses: he always gave his jockeys orders to win. But he certainly was accused of'nobbling', if you understand my meaning. Nobbling is to dose a rival horse, to prevent him from winning. Scarcely a race is run at which some case or other don't occur, despite the vigilance of the stablemen. The fact is that stable-boys are not highly paid and, for fifty pounds, will sometimes agree to 'make a horse safe' by giving him a drug. Strychnia is a favourite these days, and easy for a surgeon to obtain—as Dr Palmer was. Half a grain will stiffen the muscles, but won't kill.

It may interest you to know, Sir, that a valuable horse was destroyed here at Rugeley, during the October Meeting of 1853, a favourite for the Marquess of Anglesey's Stakes. I can't recall his name, which was one of them tongue-twisters; howsomever, I know that the noble owner had stabled him at The Crown. Very early in the morning of the race, someone scoops a hole in the stable wall and pushes through it a carrot hollowed out and filled with arsenic. The poor beast must have died at once; the offender was never caught. Dr Palmer's Doubt won that race at useful odds. Mind, I'm saying nothing, not having been in Rugeley at the time; but those are the facts, I believe.

Dr Palmer plunged in his betting, and I thought it very rum that he never changed countenance whatever happened. He wasn't the man to thrust a walking-stick through a pierglass in celebration of a victory, as I have seen done. We all used to notice him when he came back from the races and looked in at the stables. None of us could tell whether he had won or lost. Only once did

I see him out of temper, and that was nearly at the end of his run. A fellow named George Bate, formerly a farmer, was put in charge of us then, and took a sudden dislike to the Doctor. Maybe he had his reasons. Maybe also they'll appear at the trial, for he's been summoned to London as a witness, and so has yours obediently . . .

At any rate, one day George Bate comes to me, and says:' Harry, what's passed in the eight-acre field?' 'How should I know?' I asks.

'Come and take a morris down there!' says he. So we stroll through the home-paddock, and into the eight-acre, and he says to me: 'The turf's mighty cut about. It's as if the mares have been galloping about in the night. Did you hear aught?'

I says: 'No, I didn't.' Then I pointed and said: 'Lookee, Mr Bate, here's the mark of a hound's paw on this moleheap, and it's made fresh! However did a hound happen in?'

So I went to see whether the mares had come to harm, and we found that the Duchess of Kent had slipped her foal, as Goldfinder had one night a week before; nor did we discover any signs of it nowhere. The hounds must have ate it. Mr Bate, he tried to tie the blame on me, but I told him that I wouldn't be made a scapegoat. It was none of my business to see that the gaps were stopped. He argued a bit, but I held my ground, and presently we heard the sound of wheels, and along came Dr Palmer in a fly. He asks after the Duchess.

I says:' Sorry to tell you, Sir, she's had an accident—slipped her foal’

He turned a trifle" pale and says: 'You rascal, how did that occur?'

'Ask Mr Bate’ I said, 'it's his affair, not mine.'

'George,' cries Dr Palmer, 'what in the Lord's name happened to the poor creature?'

George looks steadily at him and says:' She was run by hounds, last night. It will be some enemy of yours, Sir, popped them in through the hedge/

'You'll pay for this, George, as I live!' shouts the Doctor.

Then George answers quietly: 'You should have taken an insurance policy for a few thousand pounds on the foal's life; the same as you tried to do with mine.'

At once the Doctor's manner changes. He put a hand on George's shoulder. 'Why, George/ he says sorrowfully. 'You didn't owe me that smack in the face. Surely you knew we were gammoning?'

But George didn't change his tone, not he. He says: ' You and your precious friends Cook and Jerry Smith—I owed you something for that trick you played on me. And now I think we're quits.'

He turns his back and walks away.

Dr Palmer looks at me, and an unhappier face I seldom saw. But then he shrugs and twiddles a forefinger at his temples: 'George's daft,' says he to me, 'don't pay any attention to him! It was all on account of a practical joke concocted by Mr Cook and Mr Smith, and others of my friends, which he took in earnest. But it's a bore about that foal. I had great hopes from it. Maybe Tom Masters set those hounds at the mares. If so, I'll be even with him, you'll see. I'll poison the lot of them!' I made no answer, thinking silence to be the safer course.

The Doctor goes away, and an hour later comes back with a gun, which he shows me how to load and fire, and gives me cartridges. 'Keep this by you in the cornstore, Harry,' says he. 'And if you sec anyone around here behaving in a suspicious manner, don't hesitate to shoot. I won't have my valuable foals murdered. That's the second in ten days.'

'Very good, Sir,' I says, but I resolved never to touch the weapon, whatever might come to pass.

I told George Bate about the gun, and he gave me a wise look. 'You had better lose them cartridges, Harry,' says he, 'because now that the insurance company have refused to insure my life for Palmer, he won't benefit nothing by my accidental death, the same as he's benefited from others. That Inspector Field who came down the other day told me the whole story; but I was to keep my mouth shut, which I do.'

'Here are the cartridges, Master Bate,' says I, and he takes and puts them in his pocket and goes away, whistling. That happened not long before Dr Palmer's arrest—the first week in November, it must have been.

Chapter IX

AN UNFORTUNATE SERIES OF DEATHS

AT his wife's entreaty, Dr Palmer invited her mother, Mrs Thornton, to come and live with them. Copious draughts of gin, scarcely supported by any food, had now reduced her to a pitiable state. The swarm of cats that surrounded her must starve or fend for themselves, and her fine' residence had deteriorated sadly: in another couple of years it would be almost valueless. Dr Palmer therefore persuaded Mrs Thornton to write him three cheques, in the amount of twenty or thirty pounds each, which would enable him to pay for the necessary repairs on her behalf. But he found it hard to wean the poor woman away from the house, even under colour of making it more comfortable for her, because, as she told a neighbour: 'I'll not live long, once I'm away!'

On January 6th, 1849, Mrs Thornton was found stretched dead-drunk on the dining-room floor, a victim of acute delirium tremens; and that evening Dr Palmer brought her, under restraint, to his own house, where Annie, though still weak from childbirth, prepared to tend her with loving care.

Soon, however, Annie wished that accommodation might have been found elsewhere for her mother, who used to shriek and scream in the night, arousing the whole household, and swear terribly, especially at 'that awful devil Palmer', who was accused of robbing her and murdering the faithful cats. The swarm of cats had, indeed, been mercifully destroyed by him, being so thin and mangy that no neighbour would offer them a home. She demanded gin all day long, but Dr Palmer refused to allow her a drop, which made the case worse. When she began to complain of violent headaches and sickness, and desired to see 'a real doctor, not a robber and murderer', he obligingly called in old Dr Bamford. Dr Bamford shook his head dolefully as he remarked: 'Gin is her poison, but it's also her sole medicine; I'd let her take a little now and then, if I were you, Billy, my boy. But make it a condition that she eats at the same time. And an effervescent mixture might be helpful.'

Dr Palmer therefore conceded her a little gin, but still she would not eat, and raised such a hubbub when he pressed thinly sliced bread and butter on her, that for his wife's sake he added an opiate to the next noggin. Since Annie no longer ventured into the sickroom, lest the distress it occasioned might dry up or sour her milk, and hazard the life of their infant son, Dr Palmer took charge of the nursing himself, with the help of Mrs Bradshaw, the

handywoman. Annie suggested that Dr Knight should be called, for a second opinion; but he was suffering from a severe cold and could not come until January 14th—when he briefly examined the patient, shook his head, as Dr Bamford had done, and went off without demanding a fee. Four days later, Mrs Thornton died in a wandering delirium, and Dr Bamford duly signed the death certificate, ascribing her death to apoplexy. 'It would not be seemly to put "died of gin and prolonged self-neglect",' he remarked.

The nine houses in which Mrs Thornton had a life-interest now reverted to Mr Shallcross as the heir-at-law—but not before Dr Palmer had paid a further sum out of his own pocket towards their repair. Mrs Thornton, it appears, had been responsible, as landlady, for mending the fissures in the walls and the leaks in the roof but, since she had failed to do so, the tenants had revenged themselves by not paying rent. That Dr Palmer thus acted against his own interest in repairing these houses is an effectual proof that, so far from poisoning Mrs Thornton, as has since been unkindly alleged, he had hoped, by bringing the sick creature home, at great inconvenience, to increase her span of life. She was not yet fifty years old and, her expenses being small, the longer she lived, the better for the Palmers as her guardians.

Mr Shallcross, when informed of Mrs Thornton's death, claimed the property, and not only refused to allow Dr Palmer anything for the repairs, but when these were presently completed, and the tenants therefore paid their arrears, demanded the entire sum, amounting to nearly five hundred pounds. Dr Palmer brought an action against him, but Shallcross won the case.

An even more unfortunate event happened two or three months later. Old Mrs Palmer's brother, one Joseph Bentley, was living at Dodsley, near Uttoxeter in Derbyshire. Since Dr Palmer had business near by, she asked him to call on his uncle and convey her affectionate remembrances; but forgot to warn him what sort of a customer to expect.

Joseph Bentley went by the nickname of 'Beau Bentley'. He always dressed in the height of fashion, and could well afford to do so, his first wife having left him a great deal of money. The people of Dodsley suspected him of murdering his second wife, who fell downstairs one morning and broke her neck; and he had since lived, for eighteen years, with a servant girl on whom he fathered an illegitimate daughter. Beau Bentley was now not only married a third time, but had also seduced his illegitimate daughter.

On Dr Palmer's arrival, Beau Bentley showed him a little female toddler, and said proudly:' She's both my daughter begotten in adultery, and my grand-daughter, begotten in incest. If God grants me long life and continued strength in my loins, I hope to breed yet another daughter by her. Pray, young fellow, what do you think of that?'

Dr Palmer answered: 'I reckon you're the blackest sheep of a tolerably vile family, Uncle Joseph; and I don't hold with inbreeding, even in sheep.'

' Ah, but you don't know the half of it!' chuckled Beau Bentley, who had been drinking heavily. 'I surprise myself sometimes by my scarlet sins.'

'What crimes have you committed beyond incest?' Dr Palmer asked.

'Why, there's murder,' said Bentley, 'in the first degree, and also in the second; besides robbery, arson, and rape. But Jack Ketch will never get old Joe Bentley! He may drown; he'll never hang.'

'I almost fear to drink with you, Uncle!' cried Dr Palmer.

'I almost fear to drink with myself,' he rejoined, 'lest I entertain too strong a dislike for the wretch whose face I see reflected in the brandy. Nevertheless, here goes!'

With that he downed a large tumbler of neat brandy, and toppled from his chair insensible. Dr Palmer quitted Dodsley in disgust, and heard next day that Beau Bentley had never recovered from his stupor.

No Coroner was called, but Dr Palmer made a sworn statement before the magistrate, exacdy recounting the conversation, and Beau Bentley's body went to the graveyard without more ado. The magistrate commented: 'Well, Sir, he cheated us and took his own way out: for certainly he drowned in that tumbler of brandy!' As might have been expected in a town like Stafford, the case of Abley, who had died after drinking with Dr Palmer, was brought up in this connexion; and tongues also began to wag about Mrs Thornton's death. The Doctor was rumoured to have gained twelve thousand pounds from it; and an equal amount from Beau Bentley's—though, in effect, he gained nothing but trouble from either event. The bulk of Bentley's money had been willed to his illegitimate daughters, and not a penny-piece came to any Palmer.

Yet another fatality ensued soon afterwards. By this time Dr Palmer had more or less abandoned the medical practice which his brass plate still announced. He spent most of his week away at race-meetings, betting and studying form. In May 1850, a gentleman named Leonard Bladon, living in London and employed as collector for Charrington's Brewery, attended Chester Races with him. Bladon, it seems, backed two winners and made a pile of money, mostly by bets laid and paid on the racecourse; it also seems that Dr Palmer owed him a great deal more. Bladon wrote to his wife in London that he would not be home for two or three days:'. . . but with what I have in "ready", and what Palmer will pay me, I shall come with a thousand pounds. Being a good loser, the Doctor has invited me to Rugeley, and promised me some sport with a gun.'

Bladon duly came to Rugeley, where the Palmers entertained him, and that evening inquired whether anyone would be driving over to Ashby de la Zouch, his native town. He had debts to collect there, he said, and would like to see his brother Henry again. Jeremiah Smith, the solicitor (Dr Palmer's crony, and old Mrs Palmer's present bedfellow), volunteered to drive Bladon to Ashby and back the same day. It is acknowledged that Bladon carried one hundred pounds in his money-belt when he arrived at Rugeley. But we find a conflict of testimony about his subsequent wealth. Some say that Dr Palmer owed him six hundred pounds, and that a further sum of three hundred pounds was owing him at Ashby de la Zouch (which would account for the thousand pounds he hoped to take home); others, that he arrived at Ashby with five hundred pounds, and that he collected no money there, but spent plenty; and, further, that Dr Palmer owed him no more than four hundred pounds—from which it would appear that Dr Palmer had paid in full and on the nail. At all events, Bladon visited his old friend Mr Bostock, an Ashby printer; he also ordered a fine pair of riding boots from his brother Henry, a shoemaker, who undertook to bring them over to Rugeley when completed; and Jeremiah Smith drove him back to Rugeley that same night.

Now, though reckoned to be in tolerably good health, Bladon had not yet recovered from a recent accident at the brewery, where a shaft of the manager's gig had caught him in the stomach. The London surgeon employed by Charrington's to protect them against frivolous claims for compensation examined him and pronounced that the slight internal injury sustained would soon heal, if he consented to spend the next few days quietly; but for this Bladon had no patience. On his return to Rugeley he fell ill again, and Dr Palmer treated him, with Ben Thirlby's help. After they had exhausted their skill, and Bladon still complained of severe pains in the stomach, Dr Bamford was asked to prescribe a mixture; which he did. Bladon begged Dr Palmer not to let his wife know that he was ill; because she had strongly opposed his going to Chester in the first place. No letter was therefore sent her. However, a friend of Bladon's, by name Merritt, who had attended Chester Races, and knew his present whereabouts, came over to Rugeley with a hot tip for the Oaks. Shocked by Bladon's dismal appearance, Merritt hurried back to the railway station and caught the London Express train; he told Dr Palmer in forcible language that Mrs Bladon should be at once acquainted with her husband's condition.

When Mrs Bladon arrived on the following day, she found him in the greatest pain, and no longer able to recognize her. Annie Palmer took the dismayed lady down into the parlour, made tea, and showed her the greatest sympathy. Bladon died soon afterwards. It has been said that Dr Palmer refused to let Mrs Bladon see the corpse, pretending that it was fast decomposing and not a pleasant sight; but, in fact, Annie charitably kept her from the room. Dr Bamford again signed the certificate, declaring that death had been due to internal injuries, received some weeks previously and aggravated by the journey along rough country roads to Ashby de la Zouch and back.

Mrs Bladon expressed surprise that a mere fifteen pounds had been found on her husband's person. He had made a large sum of money at Chester Races, she said. Jeremiah Smith agreed that he did indeed take a deal of money to Ashby de la Zouch, but suggested that it was spent there. William Merritt came down for the funeral with Mr Henry Bladon, the dead man's brother; both of them were convinced that Leonard Bladon had been robbed and poisoned, for his pockets had been ransacked, his private papers turned over, and some of them abstracted, including the betting-book. Merritt informed the Rugeley Police of the matter, hinting at foul play and demanding an inquiry; but on being approached by the Inspector, Mrs Bladon declared herself unready to make any charge against Jeremiah Smith whom she strongly suspected of theft, or against Dr Palmer as an accomplice. She feared that they might bring an action for slander.

Here is a letter which she wrote to Mr Bostock, the Ashby printer, on this occasion:

June 14, 1850

Dear Sir,

I am exceedingly obliged to you and Mrs Bostock for the kind interest you take in my affairs, and have no doubt, from the respect you bore my late husband, you would have done what you say. But if you take into consideration the afflicting circumstances I was placed in, with no one of my own friends round me to offer advice or counsel, ignorant of the distance from Rugeley to Ashby (which I considered much farther), and bowed down by grief, you will understand that I did not act with the coolness of reflection.

In the midst of my trouble Mr Palmer insisted on my signing a aper for .£59—£50 of which he said Mr Bladon had borrowed of him, and £9 which he said had been paid to Mr Bladon for twenty gallons of gin not received. The gratitude I felt for the kind treatment my husband had, as I thought, received from them would have induced me to sign it on the spot, could I have done so without self-injury. But knowing the embarrassed state of my affairs I candidly informed them of it; still, Mr Palmer insisted on my signing the paper, though urging me that if it was not in my power to pay, he could not compel me to do so by law. And I think I should have signed the paper, but for his saying that he had never borrowed a farthing of Mr Bladon in his life. I knew that this was a falsehood, as I had seen a paper in my husband's desk in which he acknowledged £100, and I told him so.

From that moment he ceased to insist on my signing, and said he would make me a present of the debt; and on Mrs Palmer coming into the room, from which she had been absent a short time, he told her to throw the paper, which was lying on the table, into the fire.

Now as regards the suspicions that Henry and you seem to entertain of his brother's death, I did not share them. I felt, and still feel, extremely obliged to Mrs Palmer for her tenderness to mc which could not have been greater if I had been a relative of her own. Consider how shocking it would appear, without some proof more than mere surmises, to accuse anyone of a foul crime which your letter more than hints at. If your mind is not easy, go over yourself and make inquiries; but pause before you do anything to render Mrs Palmer so uneasy as such a dreadful charge must make her. Think what in such a case your own wife's feelings would be, and consider mine. That Mr Palmer has acted unjustly in money matters I have good reason to believe. His letters I have placed in the hands of the Brewery firm and, if they think proper, and there are sufficient grounds, they will no doubt investigate the matter.

Thanking you and Mrs Bostock for your kind invitation, of which I shall be happy to avail myself, allow me to subscribe myself your sincere friend,

E. J. Bladon

No investigation was, in fact, made. We believe that an autopsy would have sustained Dr Bamford's diagnosis; also, that the lost money would have been traced to the possession of another than Dr Palmer.

Annie Palmer's position was by no means to be envied. She had, it is true, the affection of a husband who did not stint his generosity towards her, and loved her with passion; but he was now often away, attending race-meetings in different parts of the country, and could be expected home, for certain, only on Sundays. He never failed to attend divine service at St Augustine's, though he might have to travel fifty miles by railway train and fly, in order to reach Rugeley on Saturday night. Miss Salt had not cooled towards her in affection, and neither had Mrs Edwin Salt; she had, however, no other close friends, Mr Dawson having expunged her from the list of his intimates since the marriage. Worse, she was pregnant every year, and with unfailing regularity every child of hers died within a month or two of birth. An unfortunate remark of Dr Palmer's now went the rounds: that a growing family would be too great a charge on his slender purse, and that he could not altogether blame Providence for having cut short the lives of little Elizabeth, Henry and Frank. They all, it appears, died in convulsions.

After the death of John, the fourth child, who died on January 30th, 1854, Mrs Bradshaw, the help, rushed into The Bell next door and shocked the customers who were nodding over their ale and talking sagely about women and horses—their two main subjects of conversation—'I'll never go back to that house no more. That wretch has done away another of his children!'

Pressed to explain what method of infanticide Dr Palmer used, she declared: 'Why, he smears poison on his little finger and then dips it in honey and gives it to the poor innocent to suck.'

Have you seen the Doctor doing so ?' asked the landlord.

'No, but I know it in my heart,' said Mrs Bradshaw, reaching for her gin and water.

In our opinion, Mrs Bradshaw's imagination must have been morbidly stirred by the loose talk going the rounds in Rugeley. We find it difficult to reconcile Dr Palmer's love for his wife and his boy Willie with any such cold-blooded murder. Moreover, it is a common tragedy in families which arc well-to-do, careful in their hygiene, and quite above suspicion, for the first child to be born safe and sound and the second, third, fourth and fifth, to be cither miscarried or else born so sickly that they never survive infancy. Doctors cannot explain this phenomenon, except perhaps as indicating some failure of the mother's blood to agree with the father's; though why the first child should survive they do not venture to suggest.

Dr Palmer now sent his wife for a holiday to the little coastal village of Ramsgate, accompanied by her friend Miss Salt. A letter has come into our hands, undated but doubtless posted in 1854 on that occasion. It is written beneath a copperplate engraving of the Crystal Palace, with the inscription: Palace of Glass for the Industrial Exhibition, Hyde Park, 1850, designed by Joseph Paxton, Esq., F.L.S. This magnificent structure is 1848 ft. long, 408 ft. wide, and 66 ft. high, and is built entirely of glass and iron.

The letter runs:

My dearest Willie,

I hope you are very happy and also very good. Mamma has been to purchase this little picture for you: I was sorry not to get a coloured one. I shall hear from Papa all about you, so let him have to tell me that you are a DEAR GOOD BOY. I shall not forget, all being well, some pretty toy for you. Give Papa twenty kisses for Mamma, and twenty for yourself, and with love ever—

Your affectionate mother,

A. Palmer

London, Thursday. Tell Papa I will write to him tomorrow from Ramsgate.

She was away at Ramsgate a fortnight, enjoying the sea breezes and collecting shells on the shore. While there, she unbosomed herself to Miss Salt, saying: 'My poor mother died on a visit to our house, soon after dear Willie was born; and then Mr Leonard Bladon died; and afterwards there was Mr Joseph Bentley, whom my husband had been to visit; and since then, four little innocents of our own. Whatever will people say?'

But she could guess what the Rugeley gossip would be; and when the two ladies were packing their trunks for the journey back, she remarked to Miss Salt: 'My darling Willie—I hope he's safe!' Then, catching a look of surprise in her friend's eye, she changed her words: 'I mean, I hope he's well’

And well he was, having a merry time playing at 'Hons and tigers' with his father in the parlour, and hstening to fairy stories from a book. But on Annie's return, melancholia settled more firmly than ever on her. She once remarked:' If it wasn't so wicked and if it wasn't for wanting to look after Willie, I'd think no more about taking my life than taming off a cock. I've been a cruel disappointment to my husband, though he's as patient as a saint, and never addresses me harshly, or blames me for bearing sickly infants. He always says: "Your new treasure is just a bit nicer and prettier than the last." When I'm gone, he'll soon find another wife, with all that I lack in looks and accomplishments; but he gets cross whenever I tell him that.'

Since Dr Palmer's arrest, a great many new stories have come into circulation which represent him as having killed scores of people in these years; but they prove without exception to be clumsy fabrications designed to assist the sale of the newspapers that publish them. For example, The Norfolk Chronicle prints the following story, but gives no exact date, nor even a certain location for the poisoning. It seems to have been concocted on the model of Bladon's murder, which the Rugeley Police, after making due inquiries, decided to be no murder at all.

It seems that a few years ago a young man named Bly, residing near Beccles, had formed an unfortunate connexion with the Turf, and chanced to be professionally attended by William Palmer, either at Rugeley, or at some town adjacent to a race-course, by many said to be Leicester. Bly had, singularly enough, won largely of Palmer, when he was thus taken dangerously ill. His wife, having heard from him, immediately hurried to his bedside. On her arrival, Palmer tried to persuade her not to see her husband. She succeeded however in having an interview with him, and he told her he believed he was dying and, after expressing contrition for his ill-spent life, stated that in the event of his death she was to apply to Palmer for £800 which he owed him. He died shortly afterwards, and at his funeral Mrs Bly related to Palmer the conversation. Palmer replied that it was only a proof of the state of mind in which the deceased had died, for instead of owing him £800, it was just the reverse, the money being due from the deceased to him. He added that he should never have applied to Mrs Bly for it, if she had not mentioned the subject to him.

From what we have learned at Rugeley, Dr Palmer made game of the talk that went on about hm. 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: 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 Annie 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.

The first and only premium paid to The Prince of Wales was seven hundred and sixty pounds; but though, my brother tells me, the official at The Sun who had been in treaty with The Solicitors' and General urged The Prince of Wales to refuse payment until a rigid inquiry had been made into the circumstances of Annie's death, the policy could not be invalidated. Three doctors had signed the certificate, pronouncing English cholera to have been the cause, and The Sun's own agent, Mr Jeremiah Smith, signed a sworn statement that nothing was amiss. The Prince of Wales therefore sent Dr Palmer a thirteen-thousand-pound cheque. Yet even that immense sum proved insufficient to wipe out his indebtedness. He still owed two thousand pounds to Mr Padwick, the commission-agent: a loan covered by another forged acceptance in old Mrs Palmer's name.

The Doctor's reputation as a poisoner had recently increased; and when news of the insurance payment spread—for he deposited the cheque in the Market Square Bank at Rugeley—he found himself looked upon as a sort of leper. Old friends would cross the street when they saw him approaching. The only female who comforted him—besides his sister Sarah and old Mrs Palmer, both of whom continued affectionate as ever—was Eliza Tharm. He hated to sleep alone, and now that Eliza's moral obligations to Annie were at an end, she became his mistress and cared for him pretty well, I must say; though the affair disgusted me, as taking place so soon after Annie's death.

Chapter XI

A GOOD LIFE

IT would not be amiss at this point to give a short description of "Walter Palmer who, like his brother William, suffered from a fatal taste for racing and betting. Walter, a large, heavy, simple-hearted, drunken man, had been placed as a youth with Messrs Procter and Company, Corn Merchants, of Brunswick Street, Liverpool, to learn the business. He remained in their employment until, coming of age and inheriting the same sum as his four brothers, namely seven thousand pounds, he set up as a corn factor at Stafford. Familiarly known as 'Watty', he was a great favourite among members of the trade, both in Liverpool, where he continued to pay a weekly visit to the Corn Exchange, and in his new home. He courted a ladylike and elegant wife, by name Agnes Milcrest, who enjoyed an income of four hundred and fifty pounds a year, and was a sister-in-law of his elder brother Joseph. Joseph's wife, having by this time taken the measure of the family she had married into, and found that it fell considerably short of the ideal, warned Agnes against making the same mistake as herself; but to no avail. Walter already drank far more spirits than suited his health, and devoted considerably closer attention to his betting-book than his ledger; if Agnes hoped to redeem him, she came too late. His bankruptcy, in 1849, had the unfortunate effect of limiting his interests. He took no pleasure in reading, or in music, and since the corn trade could no longer afford to support him, nor could he afford to visit the racecourse, there was little left for him to do but drink hard liquor, and he counted on it to stave off boredom. Agnes Palmer still possessed her annuity, of which she could not be deprived by Walter's creditors, and continued to love him. During the bankruptcy proceedings they went together to the Isle of Man, and rented a house in the picturesque old town of Douglas; but the quietude excited rather than soothed his nerves and, after an attack of delirium tremens,

he unsuccessfully attempted suicide by cutting his throat with a kitchen knife.

A second attack, at Stafford, made Agnes Palmer decide, most reluctantly, to separate from Walter. She retired to Liverpool and there lived with her sister, who needed company, having just got rid of Joseph in much the same circumstances. Walter, now thirty-two years of age, settled down in Earl Street, Stafford. Agnes paid him one hundred pounds of her annuity, to which old Mrs Palmer added a further fifty pounds a year. For want of other amusement, he spent his mornings and afternoons at the bowling green, where he would bet in halfpennies on the matches. He always sent his wife an affectionate weekly letter; and she had promised to rejoin him so soon as he was himself again, though not before. Like the generality of drunkards, he had become reserved in his habits, and would walk up and down for hours in silence; but could not wean himself from the bottle, try as he might.

Dr Palmer's moral decline was, we believe, precipitated by his wife's death. Far from taking to heart the lesson which she tried to teach him by her fond self-sacrifice—that he must abandon his gambling ways and seriously resume the practice of medicine— he had learned from her an exceedingly simple method of making money: which was to insure the lives of those who stood only a few steps from the grave. We may acquit him of knowing or suspecting that Annie had died of anything but English cholera; and he could hardly have been expected, when Eliza Tharm told him the truth, to let the Police know about the poisonous powders which she had administered in all innocence. With his brother Walter, however, he certainly took one step farther in the direction of crime: not by poisoning him, as was afterwards charged, but by encouraging him to a speedier end than he might otherwise have met.

'Inspectors Field and Simpson of the Detective Force', as they are called—though 'Inspector' is their self-assumed rank, and the 'Detective Force' consists only of themselves—are frequently employed by the larger insurance companies to inquire into dubious or suspicious claims. Both men had belonged to the regular Police Force; and Inspector Field especially, a burly, jovial officer with a face like a sporting farmer's, fists like hams, and a red velveteen waistcoat much stained with snuff, must be worth a fortune to his employers. We wonder that he does not demand a thousand pounds a year retaining fee from them, instead of the miserable three guineas a week and travelling expenses which is all they pay him. This account, as it happens, was given us by his colleague, Inspector Simpson, a lean, pale, clerkly man, who dresses in black as if in continuous mourning for the sins of the world. Inspector Field says of him:' Simpson's not got so keen a nose as yours truly, but he has a far better head for dates and figures. You can rely on him for those.'

INSPECTOR SIMPSON

Inspector Field and I have been employed by the insurance companies to clear up a good many dirty businesses in our day, but this present affair proved to be among the dirtiest. Yes, Sir, we also undertake investigations for private persons, in our scant leisure time—always at your service!

Let me give you the sequence of events as we have reconstructed them by inquiry. Though the ship's log (so to speak) will doubtless be produced at the trial, we know, by and large, how she sailed. Dr Palmer kept a stable for broodmares at Rugeley, his home town, and had several racehorses in training at Hednesford and elsewhere. He hoped that these animals would earn vast sums of money for him but, as you know, Sir, racehorses are expensive to support and run; he achieved some successes, he met with even more failures.

The first horse he had in training was Goldfinder; she ran five times in 1852; once unplaced, twice second, twice third. In 1853, carrying nearly top weight (7 stone 6 pounds), she won the Tradesmen's Plate at Chester May Meeting, Aldcroft up, which was worth £2770. Though Dr Palmer might have netted a deal of money on that occasion had he been able to lay heavily on the horse, at thirty to one, it seems he could only afford a five-pound note—hence the long odds. He backed her at the Shrewsbury May Meeting for the Queen's Plate, but again not heavily, because all the money she won at Chester had gone towards paying his creditors, and the odds were short; we estimate that he cleared three hundred pounds. He ran Goldfinder three more times in 1853, backing her generously. On each occasion he forfeited his stakes, for she never won a place, and went out of training in November.

He also ran Morning Star that year—at considerable loss. It is true that Morning Star won the Cleveland Cup at Wolverhampton, with the celebrated jockey Charley Marlow in the saddle, and then the Optional Selling Plate at Rugeley, but he was unplaced in eleven other races. In 1854 he came second three times, and twice third, and often nowhere.

Then there was Lurley, who ran several times unplaced in 1853 and 1854, and obtained only three seconds. Doubt, who won the Wolverhampton August Handicap and the Marquess of Anglesey's Stakes at Rugeley, proved more trouble than he was worth, because of a weakness in his feet, and went out of training the same year.

Dr Palmer now decided to secure a couple of first-class animals, though it were altogether above his means, and bought The Chicken and Nettle, both much fancied, paying two thousand guineas apiece for them, I believe. The Chicken earned his oats in 1854, by winning the Hopeful T.Y.O. Stakes and the New Stakes at Durham August Meeting, together with £150 ant the £345 Eglinton Stakes at York in the same month, Wells up. Also the Mostyn Plate at the Chester Autumn Meeting, and the Handicap Plate at the Newmarket Houghton Meeting—I did not inquire their value. But Dr Palmer could not afford to run Nettle himself that year; so he leased her to Mr Wilkinson, under whose colours she won the Tyro Stakes at Newmarket, and the famous Gimcrack Stakes at York. I believe he had bargained for a percentage of the stakes. However, he had raised the money at such a high rate of interest, on acceptances forged in the name of his wealthy mother, that even these substantial gains by no means justified his original investment in the horses; and it seemed he must soon be pulled up short by his creditors—whereupon the forgeries would be discovered and make him liable to imprisonment for life.

In the autumn of 1854, his immediate wants were relieved by the thirteen-thousand-pound cheque which The Prince of Wales Insurance Company paid him for the loss of his wife; but he soon came knocking at the moneylenders' doors again. One of these was a London solicitor named Pratt, a tall, stout man, rather fashionable in his style of dress, with an enormous pair of brown whiskers, the eyes of a London street-boy, and the low voice of a retiring spinster. He practises in Queen Street, Mayfair, being, I understand, a good family man with three young children and a prominent supporter of the Church Missionary Society; yet never hesitated to charge Dr Palmer sixty per cent for his accommodation, despite the Biblical injunction against usury. He must have been well aware that the acceptances were forged, since the death of his wife had reduced Dr Palmer to copying the old lady's signature himself.

It was this same Pratt whom Dr Palmer used as his agent when insuring Walter Palmer's life. From what Inspector Field and I learned subsequently, the Doctor's approach to Walter was something of this nature: 'How about selling your life, Watty? You know it can't be a long one, not above ten years at the rate you're going; but you can at least make it a little merrier. I'll tell you what: I'm ready to insure it for a thousand pounds, paying the Office their five per cent rate every year, and of that thousand pounds I'll advance you four hundred at once, free and for nothing, to spend as you please. If you last beyond eight years, I'll be the loser, yet I don't mind taking the risk, if you promise to play fair. What say you, Watty, old chum? It's easy money, like pledging your skeleton to a hospital: as paupers do for a tobacco allowance.'

Walter eagerly agreed, because these four hundred pounds extra drinking money seemed manna from Heaven; whereupon Dr Palmer warned him that, to secure the usual five per cent rate, a couple of examining doctors must first pass him as a sound investment. For a month, at least, he would have to forswear hard liquor and pack good food into his belly. Walter protested that such self-denial would exceed his moral strength; but Dr Palmer undertook to keep him sober during that period. 'I'll engage Tom

Walkenden as your trainer,' he said. 'Afterwards, if you please, you may drink again.'

Proposals were now made by Pratt, Dr Palmer's name not appearing in the application, to no less than four Offices—The Prince of Wales, The Solicitors' and General, The Universal, and The Indisputable—for about thirteen thousand pounds apiece. Other agents of Dr Palmer's sounded two other Offices—The Athenaeum and The Gresham—suggesting policies of fourteen thousand and fifteen thousand pounds respectively. The total sum sought was eighty-two thousand pounds, which called for initial premiums in the amount of some four thousand five hundred pounds.

On January 3 1st, The Prince of Wales, unaware that Walter was related to Annie Palmer, by whose insurance they had gone down so heavily, issued a policy of fourteen thousand pounds on the recommendation of Drs Hughes and Harland, both of Stafford. Dr Harland, an elderly physician newly arrived in the town, had passed Walter as a good life without making any close inquiries into his medical history. Dr Hughes also passed him, but added the following qualification: 'The applicant is now temperate and healthy; previous habits, however, reduce his chance of longevity to less than the average. He owns to an attack of delirium tremens five years ago.'

One of the medical men consulted by The Universal was Dr Monckton of Rugeley. After first passing Walter, he soon changed his opinion as the result of a talk with Dr Campbell of Stoke-on-Trent, Walter's former physician. He appended to his report:

MOST CONFIDENTIAL!

Walter Palmer's life has been rejected by two Assurance Offices. He drinks hard and has had delirium tremens. His brother, Dr William Palmer, insured his own wife not long ago for ^13,000. She died after a single premium had been paid.

Beneath this postscript Dr Monckton wrote in capital letters: BE CAUTIOUS!

Dr Waddell of Stafford, now Walter's private physician, was also consulted by The Universal, and likewise refused to recommend him. He countersigned Dr Monckton's confidential report with: 'I believe that the above facts are true.'

Though not shown this paper, Walter knew at least that he had been turned down as a 'bad risk', and meeting Dr Waddell one day on Castle Knoll, reproached him with a lack of consideration. 'My habits are entirely altered, Doctor,' Walter said. 'I drink no more than three glasses of bitter beer in a day, and eat like a thresher. Why didn't you pass me?'

Dr Waddell answered drily: 'Continue so for six months, and I'll begin to believe in your reform; continue for five years, and I'll do so with a good heart. But your last attack of delirium tremens caused me great trouble and anxiety, and I can't guarantee that there won't be others—not without stronger evidence than your own hopes of a cure.'

The Gresham, which appointed Drs Harland and Waddell to examine Walter, accepted the policy, while making it a condition that 'no insurance will be paid if this person dies before five years have elapsed'. On receipt of this reply, I am informed, Dr Palmer wrote to his agent, a Mr Webb: 'That would not suit my book at all. We had better drop the matter.'

In order to pay The Prince of Wales their initial premium of seven hundred pounds odd, Dr Palmer borrowed one thousand five hundred pounds from Pratt, at the usual sixty per cent rate, against one more forged acceptance from his mother; and, having done so, set about restoring Walter's former intemperance, and even enhancing it. He hired the same Tom Walkenden, who had hitherto prevented him from drinking, to be Walter's 'bottle holder'. Walkenden is a powerful man, with a broad, flat face and coarse features; he has been a potman, and once served a prison sentence in London for larceny. The assignment of the insurance policy to Dr Palmer was then duly drawn out, and witnessed by Jeremiah Smith, who took five guineas as his fee. Yet Walter did not get the promised four hundred pounds, but only sixty in cash, and unlimited credit with Mr John Burgess, the innkeeper and spirit merchant of Dudley Port.

Walter kept a cask of gin in the house and never drank less than a quart a day, besides the three-pint bottle which Walkenden placed every night at his bedside, and which he had always emptied by the early morning. He would toss off half a tumbler at a gulp. In the early morning, Walkenden had orders to bring him a cup of hot coffee and some buttered toast. This he would swallow but throw up again; afterwards he steadied himself with three or four glasses of gin and water, before starting the day's serious drinking. He constantly complained of pains all over his body, particularly below one shoulder-blade. He also coughed and spat a great deal.

Dr Waddell, meeting him one day at the bowling green, asked: 'Well, Walter, and how do you do?'

'Why, lad, I'm very bad indeed,' Walter replied. 'I fear I shall never recover. Pity me for a most wretched man.'

'Nonsense, nonsense!' cried Dr Waddell. 'I'll guarantee your cure, if you'll only obey my instructions.'

'Well, I think not,' said Walter, 'but my brother William is bringing me some pills tomorrow.'

'If you won't come back to me—if you put yourself under anyone else, even your own brother—I give you up!' Dr Waddell declared. 'But tell me, why have you relapsed, Walter, after being so much improved not many weeks ago?'

Walter replied simply: 'The fact is, lad, that I owe my brother William four hundred pounds, and it weighs on my conscience; he's pretty short of money these days. I feel like a pauper defrauding the hospital of its skeleton.'

Dr Waddell's being a near neighbour of Walter's may have been the reason why William Palmer now removed the latter to Castle Terrace, beyond the railway station. To make everything look above board, he had invited Dr Waddell and Dr Day, The Prince of Wales's regular insurance doctor, who also lived in Earl Street, to keep an eye on his brother; but encouraged neither of them to see too much of him. In the middle of July he visited Walter, and pretended to be greatly distressed by his drinking. 'You must make an endeavour, Watty,' he said, 'to sober up. Come, what do you say to visiting Agnes for a week and showing yourself in your true colours ? Tom Walkenden, here, will help you to train for the meeting, and I'll have a word with Dr Waddell first.'

Inspector Field and I have since questioned Walkenden about this episode. This is what he told us: 'Poor Watty was in a pretty bad state last July. He often begged me, if I ever saw that another attack of the horrors was on the way, not to take his gin from him, as I'd done in December before he went in front of the insurance doctors. "That sober stretch did me plenty of harm," said he. "If only I'd only been allowed my gin then, when I wanted it, I shouldn't have been half so bad when I got it back again." Well, while he was under Dr Waddell's care, sobering up for the visit to his wife, I had orders to allow him only two or three small glasses a day, as when he'd had the horrors. But when I witnessed the poor fellow's despair, and he threatened to do himself an injury, well, I sometimes gave him a glass or two more than Dr Waddell permitted, if there was real necessity. What could I do? The wretched cove used to beg and cry for liquor as if that were his life. He used to do all he could to get gin, and be very cunning about it, too. One morning, after I'd been sitting up with him all night, I reckoned he was so ill he couldn't leave his bed. Downstairs I went, to the kitchen for my coffee and my plate of bacon and eggs; and was well engaged with the victuals when I heard a noise overhead. "Why," I says to myself, "that sounds as if he were out of bed, but it's hardly possible." Upstairs I went again, and found him on his hands and knees, searching beneath the dressing table, which was where he used to hide his gin from me.

' "Hulloa, Sir," says I, "what are you doing there?" ' "I can't find it," he whimpers.

' "No," I answers. "Nor never will!" I lifted him up, though he was no light weight, and put him back to bed, where I charitably gave him a tot. He used to hide his gin bottle in all sorts of places—under his mattress, in his boots, anywhere. Well, after a hard week of it, we restored him to a condition where he'd eat again; and, once he got an-eating, the rest wasn't hard. Dr Palmer, he arranged for Watty's wife to meet him at Liverpool railway station; and we sat Watty in a train. The guard had orders that he mustn't alight at any station to buy drink.'

Walter Palmer spent five days at Liverpool and, it seems, stayed perfectly sober all the time, to please his wife, who did not let him out of her sight. On August 9th, he returned, and spent the next day at Rugeley with his mother, his sister Sarah, and Dr Palmer. That night he wrote his wife a letter which has since been printed in a newspaper. I have the cutting here in my pocketbook.

Castle Terrace, Stafford, August 10th, 1855

My dearest Agnes,

I left you last evening and did feel I possessed a light heart; but on my arrival at Warrington I found the South Express was three-quarters of an hour late, owing to the flood washing away arches, etc. I was lonely—only myself in the carriage. The rain on my arrival was incessant. Thanks to God, I had not far to go. I have been home today; I am truly sorry to say Mother has been very unwell, but is better. I told Sarah you was going to the concert on the 27th, and she wishes to go too. Please write to her, and she can come with me. If I should bring little Miss Barber, you won't be jealous, will you? But I don't know whether we shall meet or not. I should like you to know one steady and sensible creature upon earth, but not a teetotaller on principle. She says: 'I never drink one glass of wine in twelve months and have, therefore, no occasion to be a teetotaller.' I will write to you tomorrow and explain a few little secrets. Good night, God bless you, and ever believe in the affection of

Walter Palmer

P.S. Remaining sober with you was easy enough, because you are a dear good creature and keep no spirits in your house. Here drink is always at my elbow.

On Sunday, August 12th, Dr Day called at Castle Terrace and found Walter and William Palmer together. Walter was so intoxicated that Dr Day deferred his visit until the afternoon, hoping that he would by then be in a quieter state. Dr Palmer undertook to do his best in the matter, but that afternoon, when Dr Day called, he opened the door himself and said: 'Pray, leave this to me. Walter's no better and so very noisy and unmanageable, it's no use your seeing him, I'm afraid.'

On Monday, Dr Palmer attended the Wolverhampton Races; meanwhile Dr Day saw Walter and prescribed some pills. When he called on the Tuesday, Walter said, grinning: 'Doctor, those pills of yours were twisters! But I threw them up, and now I'm off to Wolverhampton. You needn't look in for another day or two. I'm well again.'

He set out for Wolverhampton with Walkenden, stopping at The Fountain Inn on his arrival. Here he felt so weak that he had to lie down and never reached the racecourse. Walter drank all that day, and continued all night after his return to Castle Terrace. When Dr Day called on the Wednesday, August 14th, he was told by Walkenden: 'Your patient is at the Wolverhampton Races, Doctor.' Walkenden has since confessed that this was untrue; but swears Walter himself sent the message. At any rate, Walter lay upstairs drinking, and did not leave the house.

Dr Palmer was to have attended the Ludlow Races that Thursday; but changed his mind and instead went to Stafford where he spent the day with "Walter, having asked Jeremiah Smith to keep in touch with him. At 1.32 p.m., Mr Smith dispatched a telegraphic message: 'Lurley has a good chance for the Ludlow Stakes.' It arrived just as Walter was dying, after an apoplectic stroke. Ten minutes later Dr Palmer summoned the Boots at the Grand Junction Hotel, and offered him sixpence if he would take a telegraphic message to Stafford railway station, for delivery in London. This was addressed to his friend, Mr Webb, and ran: 'Lay £50 on Lurley for the Ludlow Stakes, whatever the price. If Lurley won, Dr Palmer stood to make five hundred pounds. At a quarter past four, he sent another telegraphic message by the same Boots to the Clerk of the Course, at Ludlow: 'Pray, Mr Frail, inform me who won the Ludlow Stakes.'

In the event, Lurley did not catch the Judge's eye, nor did Morning Star's winning of the Welter Cup by twenty lengths at that meeting compensate for the disappointment. Dr Palmer received word of Lurley's failure as stoically as usual. On the Thursday, he went by train to Liverpool and broke the news of Walter's death to Agnes Palmer. Overcome by grief, she asked why nobody had written or telegraphed to say that he was ill. Dr Palmer at once answered that, on asking Walter's leave to write, he had been told: 'No, Billy, I'm not so bad as all that. I'll write myself tomorrow from Wolverhampton; I don't want Agnes worried unnecessarily. You shan't say a word.'

Agnes Palmer then proposed to return with Dr Palmer for a last look at her husband; but he said, very truly, that this was no longer advisable. The body had begun to decompose very rapidly in the hot August weather, and was now closed tightly in a leaden shell. She therefore nursed her grief until the Monday, when the funeral took place at Rugeley; there, with her brothers-in-law William, George and Thomas, and her sister-in-law Sarah, she followed Walter to his grave in St Augustine's churchyard.

That evening Dr Waddell met Walkenden, very drunk, emerging from the refreshment room on Stafford railway station. 'Hulloa, old cock!' cried Walkenden. 'How's the hens?'

Dr Waddell, noticing the mourning band around Walkenden's hat, answered civilly: 'Good evening, Tom! May I ask in return whom you have had the pleasure of putting underground?'

'Poor Watty!' says Walkenden.

'Poor whom?' asks Dr Waddell.

'Poor Walter Palmer; died of an apoplexy. A fine funeral it was, too. His brother William didn't stint us of drink.'

Dr Waddell, terribly shocked, exclaimed in the hearing of the stationmaster and porters: 'I'll let the Assurance Office know of this affair.'

The Doctor must have suspected foul play. It was his letter to The Prince of Wales that first prompted them to contest the claim, although Dr Day had obligingly certified apoplexy as the cause of Walter's death.

Chapter XII

A GENTLEMAN OF PROPERTY

INSPECTOR SIMPSON continued to unfold the story. He described how Dr Palmer sent Pratt, his London agent, the death certificate and other documents which would enable him to claim the fourteen thousand pounds insurance money; but also how Dr Waddell's letter, informing The Prince of Wales's managers that Walter was a brother of William Palmer—whom they had recently paid a similar sum upon the death of his wife— and that Walter's death might well have been brought about by wilful negligence, alarmed them into withholding payment. They referred Pratt to their solicitors.

Dr Palmer, dreadfully pressed for money, did not know which way to turn. In May, he had entered Nettle, his Sweetmeat filly, for the Oaks and engaged Charley Marlow as her jockey. Marlow, as I mentioned just now, had won a victory for the all-yellow colours at Wolverhampton on Morning Star, coaxing a fine performance out of that lazy beast, which had never won a race before, nor was ever likely to win one again. Palmer laid so heavily on Nettle for the Oaks that she started as a raging favourite, at odds of two to one.

It happened that on the previous night an old Yorkshire trainer had told Marlow: 'Hoi's noa going to win Oaks, and whoi? 'Cause hoi poison'd woife!'

Charley Marlow, very angry, appealed to Will Saunders the trainer, who was present. 'This is a pretty serious slander, Mr Saunders,' he said. 'You come from that part of the country, and you train for Dr Palmer; what do you know of the matter?'

'It's none of my business,' Saunders replied sourly, 'if the little boys of Rugeley say that Billy Palmer poisoned his wife. I don't.'

Whether or not the suspicion thus implanted in Marlow's mind affected his horsemanship, who can tell? At all events, Nettle was lying second and Marlow had not yet called on her for the final effort, of which he believed her well capable, when suddenly she swerved, fell over the chains near the New Mile post, threw him heavily, and galloped away into the furze bushes. Marlow's thigh was broken and, while being carried off the course, he exclaimed between groans: 'It served me right! What business had I to ride a damned poisoner's horse?'

Condoled with by George Myatt on his loss of the race, Dr Palmer said no more than: 'It is rather a bore, though, isn't it?' His losses must have been very serious, since he had stood to win no less than ten thousand pounds.

The Prince of Wales's refusal to pay the insurance money came as a thunderbolt. He considered himself cheated by Walter, on whom he had spent a considerable sum—not only the seven hundred pound premium, but also sixty pounds in cash, and bills owing to the innkeeper for nineteen gallons of gin and a quantity of odicr liquor consumed at Castle Terrace. He therefore applied to Agnes Palmer, who was staying with friends at Great Malvern, for the payment of certain debts which her husband (he said) had left unsettled.

The following exchange of letters between Dr Palmer and his sister-in-law has since been published:

Rugeley, Sept. 27th, 1855

Dear Agnes,

I hope the change of air and scenery has, by this time, done you good, and that you are more quiet and reconciled than, when I communicated to you the painful, the sorrowful, news of dear Walter's death. Ah, poor fellow, I often think of him and only wish I could now do for him what I did while he was alive; and, I assure you, I did a very great deal for him—perhaps a great deal more than you are aware of.

I know not whether Walter told you that I had advanced him £85 on the drawing-room furniture—of course, I was well aware that some of it belonged to you, but he, poor fellow, told me that you would repay me the money—which I feel sure you will do, now that I have told you. There was also another item that you must, if you please, assist me to: viz.: £40 for a bill, which you knew well of the circumstance, and I must be excused going into particulars. This amount I should not ask you for, but Walter said that if I would only take up the bill you would pay me, and I feel sure you will, after all the money I have paid on his account. I have also received bills amounting to £200 which, I suppose, must be paid by someone. What say you to this? You cannot, for one single moment, but think that I ought to have assistance from someone, and I crave yours, because I feel certain that Walter must have told you how very, very often, and on very many occasions, I had stood his friend; and I believe that I and his dear mother were, except yourself, the only friends he had on earth. I only wish his career on earth had been a different one. He might then have still been alive; but, poor fellow, he is dead and buried and I hope and trust he is gone to Heaven.

With kind regards,

Yours very truly,

Wm Palmer

It seems that in breaking the news to his sister-in-law, Dr Palmer had blamed her for not having come back with Walter to Stafford and there resumed conjugal relations. Walter, he said, had visited her in Liverpool, sober and hopeful, yet she disdained this sincere reformation; therefore his death, which was a sort of suicide due to despair, must be for ever after on her conscience. The argument profoundly affected Agnes for a while; but at the funeral she heard talk which persuaded her that Dr Palmer, not she, stood in need of reproach. She answered his demands with some asperity:

Edith Lodge, Great Malvern, Sept. 28th, 1855

Dear William,

I have just received your note, and must say that I am much surprised at its contents. What right had you to lend your money, supposing that I would repay it, without consulting me on the subject? Poor Walter's explanation to me, over and over again, was that you had insured his life for, I think he said, £1000; and that you had promised to advance him £500 of this sum, but that you had put him off from time to time and were just giving him a few pounds now and then to go on with, until you could find means to pay him the whole. Now, if that is true, and I am much disposed to believe it, you are the proper person to pay all he owes; but if you make that out to be incorrect (and I have no way, I am very sorry to say, of proving it) I still do not consider that I am the person to be looked to for paying his debts, never having received a farthing from him, or been kept by him, in the whole course of our married life.

I should not think your mother can be aware that you are applying to me for payment of her son's debts, and I will not have it for a moment supposed that I am the person responsible. In conclusion, I beg of you to remember, and beware how you belie the dead.

I am, truly yours,

A. Palmer

This letter goes to prove that neither Agnes, nor Walter himself, knew of Dr Palmer's insuring the latter's life for fourteen thousand pounds, and proposing to insure it with other offices for a further sixty-eight thousand pounds. He must now practise extreme caution, because Pratt, when he went to visit The Prince of Wales's solicitors, had admitted that though the insurance supposedly covered money advanced by Walter to old Mrs Palmer, the actual beneficiary from the death would be Dr Palmer, to whom total payment had been assigned by Walter in consideration of a four-hundred-pound loan. This confirmed The Prince of Wales in their determination not to pay; whereupon Pratt laid the case before an eminent counsel, Sir Fitzroy Kelly, who gave his opinion that:

Want of consideration is not the ground on which William Palmer has failed to recover; but it is my advice that some other member of the family should take out administration to the estate of the deceased.

The first person legally entitled to do so was Agnes who had, however, already told Dr Palmer that she washed her hands of Walter's debts. Dr Palmer consequently foresaw no difficulty in making her sign a formal surrender of the right to administer the estate—so long as she did not guess how much insurance money was at stake. The next natural administratrix was old Mrs Palmer, whom Jeremiah Smith, her lover, could easily persuade to sign away her rights. Pratt therefore produced two copies of a' Renunciation' form from Doctors' Commons, and Dr Palmer instructed Jeremiah Smith to secure Agnes's signature on one, and the old lady's on the other. These two documents would be offered to The Prince of Wales as evidence that all was fair and above board.

Smith first travelled to Great Malvern, where he asked Agnes Palmer to sign the 'Renunciation', as Walter's widow, and with it a surrender of her interest in the insurance policy. This she almost did, but on second thoughts, said: 'I should prefer my own solicitor to look over this document before I sign, Mr Smith. According to poor Walter, no less a sum than one thousand pounds is in question!'

He pricked up his ears at this remark, not having hitherto heard of Dr Palmer's pretence to Walter that the insurance was for a mere thousand pounds; and smelt danger. Saying merely: 'Very well then, Ma'am, I shall acquaint your brother-in-law with your decision,' he took the papers away again. On the return journey to Rugeley he must have come to suspect that he was being used as an instrument of fraud, if not worse. Dr Palmer had privately told him that because the Prince of Wales, which had paid him thirteen thousand pounds for Annie's death, might not otherwise have accepted the risk, the policy was taken out in old Mrs Palmer's name, not his own, and by the agency of Pratt. He further, no doubt, explained that Walter's drunkenness was incurable; and that he would take long odds against his lasting more than another couple of years.

Thinking the matter over carefully and piecing together scraps of conversation, Smith convinced himself that Palmer had hastened Walter's death; and that to raise the money for the premium he had probably forged old Mrs Palmer's signature. The situation appalled him; yet he shrank from confiding his suspicions to the old lady, who adored her scapegrace Billy, and from whose financial innocence—in return for certain favours—he made so substantial a profit himself. He therefore resolved on a roundabout way of freeing himself from embarrassment.

At this point, Inspector Field took up the tale:

INSPECTOR FIELD

My colleague, Inspector Simpson, has marshalled the facts very clearly, though he should perhaps have emphasized that Mr Smith's motives are presumed, rather than certainly known.

At all events, Mr Smith wrote to The Midland—a company which had not been approached when Dr Palmer wished to insure first his wife's and then his brother's life—and told them that he could, he believed, find them good business in Rugeley. They accordingly appointed him their agent, and being asked to suggest the names of referees, he sent in those of Dr Palmer's close friends: Samuel Cheshire, the Postmaster, and John Parsons Cook, a solicitor. Yes, Sir, the very man for whose murder Dr Palmer is now standing trial! What is more, when asked to suggest medical referees, Mr Smith proposed the name of Dr Palmer himself, and of Thirlby, his assistant!

I knew nothing of the case until The Midland officials called me to their office one day last September. 'Inspector Field,' the General Manager said, 'we wish to engage you on a somewhat delicate mission.'

At your service, gentlemen,' I answered, 'if your terms are commensurate with the delicacy you mention.'

They smiled at my downrightness, and undertook to pay me an extra two guineas a week if I brought back information that proved useful. I stood out for the extra guineas, whatever the value of the information; and to this they agreed likewise.

'Here's the case, Inspector,' said the General Manager. 'Mr Jeremiah Smith, a solicitor of Rugeley, has proposed the life-insurance of a neighbour, one George Bate, Esq., for ten thousand pounds, and has named Dr William Palmer, also of the same town, as one of two medical referees. Now, despite the hot rivalry between insurance companies—often, I regret to say, evinced by something close on sharp practice—a certain solidarity may none the less be discovered among them. We now assist one another to compile a confidential black-list of suspicious customers, which is issued monthly for our mutual protection. The latest list contains the name of Dr Palmer, in respect of two dubious life insurances: the first on his wife Annie, which was settled at her death, though grudgingly, by The Prince of Wales; the second on his brother Walter, with which The Prince of Wales are also concerned, but which has not been settled. Here fraud is suspected, and even foul play. We wish you to visit Rugeley and find out what you can about this "George Bate, Esq." At the same time, The Prince of Wales, who have joined us in this inquiry, empower you to investigate on their behalf the death of Walter Palmer. I should add that Mr Jeremiah Smith has recently approached The Indisputable for a further insurance on Mr Bate s life.'

'Very good, Sir,' said I, 'but seeing that, if I understand you aright, there's suspicion of murder here, I'm not putting my head into any noose unless I have a colleague to stand by me, with a knife to cut the rope if it tightens.'

'Yours is a very sensible attitude,' the General Manager answered. 'Take Inspector Simpson, by all means. We will pay him his usual fee.'

He handed us five guineas on account, and we boarded the Rugeley train. Inspector Simpson went on to Stafford, to take statements from Dr Waddell and Tom Walkenden, and pick up what talk might be current in the inns near Castle Terrace.

On reaching Rugeley, I called on Mr Samuel Cheshire, the Postmaster, one of the referees. It has since transpired that Dr Palmer had some hold over this former schoolfellow of his, though the exact nature of Cheshire's obligation remains doubtful. Some ascribe it merely to the pony-chaise which, after Annie Palmer's death, Mrs Cheshire constantly borrowed for Sunday outings; others hint at a disreputable disease for which Dr Palmer treated Cheshire. Whatever the truth may have been, this hold gave him the freedom of the Post Office: that is to say, Cheshire would detain incoming and outgoing letters addressed to whatever person Dr Palmer named and, after steaming open the envelopes in his presence, would allow him to read the contents. Most of the letters were then re-sealed and dispatched to the addressees, but some Dr Palmer had permission to pocket, upon his undertaking to deliver them in person. Among these, we now know, were demands made by Pratt on old Mrs Palmer, and by Padwick, another moneylender, to repay loans for which Dr Palmer had fraudulently made her responsible. I knew nothing of this arrangement when I presented my credentials to Cheshire that day. He is a frail, simple-looking man in his early thirties, With fair hair and a nervous habit of twiddling the seal-ring on his little finger. I asked him, first, where I might find Mr John Parsons Cook's office.

He answered: 'Mr Cook has no offices in Rugeley. At present he's staying around the corner at Dr Palmer's.' 'Then where does he practise?' I asked. 'He used to practise at Watling,' Cheshire informed me, 'but since he took to the Turf, he has more or less abandoned the Law.'

On learning that I came as agent for The Midland Insurance Company, he appeared puzzled. I said: 'Mr Cheshire, pray be plain with me. Mr Jeremiah Smith, the Company's Rugeley agent, has named you as one of our referees, has he not? Mr Cook is the other; Dr Palmer and Mr Benjamin Thirlby are the medical referees. I have come to discuss a proposed policy on the fife of George Bate, Esq.'

Cheshire swallowed once or twice, and fairly spun the seal-ring around his finger. 'I had quite forgotten the circumstance,' he muttered at last. 'What do you require of me?'

'This is a mere formality, Sir,' I replied. 'My employers wish to be satisfied that your Mr Bate is a man of property.'

Cheshire answered, without looking directly at me: 'Why, of course, Mr Bate is well regarded in the neighbourhood. He is a fine judge of horses, and was a substantial farmer before he retired.'

I asked: 'And what do you suppose his income to be?'

'I shouldn't care to guess,' he said.

'For a life insurance often thousand pounds, he must doubtless be possessed of at least three hundred to four hundred a year?' I suggested.

"Thereabouts, perhaps,' he agreed.

'Does he live in style? Does he entertain much?' I continued.

' Oh, he has a capital cellar,' says Cheshire with sudden inspiration, 'and you should see his thoroughbred brood mares! Dr Palmer envies him those stables, I can tell you.'

'Any debts?' I asked.

'No, no debts of any consequence,' he replied. Returning to the matter of the cellar, I asked: 'Has he good port?'

'Why, his bins are celebrated in Rugeley,' Cheshire asserted.

'That's good news,' I exclaimed. 'I have a slight weakness for port, and this is the hour when I usually take a glass. Perhaps, though, I had better hasten back to the railway station with my report and catch the London train.' Then I thanked him for his courtesy, telling him that in the circumstances I would not trouble Mr Cook; and when two customers came in, bade him good-day.

Instead of returning to the railway station, however, I entered The Shoulder of Mutton inn, took a tankard of ale, and inquired for Mr George Bate. Clewley, the landlord, after directing me to a farmhouse across the fields, asked: 'Have you come to dun the poor fellow? I hope not. Though he pays only six shillings a week rent to the farmer's wife for a room, there's six months owing.'

'No,' said I, 'you mustn't mistake me for a bailiff. I've come to give him some good news.'

I proceeded to the farm, and the farmer's wife showed me a field, where 'George be a-hoeing turmuts.' Presently I heard the sound of singing:

For the fly,

For the fly

For the fly be on the turmuts,

And it's all my eye

For me to try

To keep the fly off the turmuts . . .

and the singer was George Bate, Esq. He proved to be a red-snouted, bleary-eyed, youngish fellow, with ragged trousers, a filthy shirt and no more education, it seemed, than he had managed to snatch in his brief visits to Sunday School—whenever he was not herding geese, scaring crows, or doing something else of equal importance.

I took off my hat, and said: 'Mr George Bate, I presume?'

He leaned on his hoe and asked: 'Who may you be?'

'I'm a representative of The Midland Assurance Company,' I answered, 'come to ask about this policy of yours.'

When I saw that he did not understand the word 'policy' and, on further talk, found that he was totally ignorant of the nature of life assurances, and that 'premium', 'proposal', and 'assignment' meant nothing to him, I said: 'They tell me at the Post Office that you're a man of property, Mr Bate.'

'Oh, no, you must have heard wrong, Sir,' he replied. 'I'm not a man of property yet, but they've promised me two thousand gold sovereigns, and a vote for the county.'

'Who are these benefactors of yours, Mr Bate?' I inquired.

'Well, it was like this,' he said. 'One day, along comes Dr Palmer in the company of Jerry Smith and that young swell Cook, who's always at the races with the Doctor. I took the opportunity to ask for my pay, because I was behind with my rent, and the Doctor hadn't paid me for a while. The Doctor regrets that he's short of change, and asks Mr Cook to pay me my two guineas, which he obliges with. Dr Palmer then says, says he: "I'm sorry, George, to be so forgetful. I'd like to do something for you, that I would, and better your position." At this Jerry Smith grins and says: "Then why not insure his life for, say six thousand pounds, and give him an advance of a couple of thousand? That'll enable him to live in style, and drink himself to death if he pleases." Then he gives Dr Palmer a peculiar look and bursts into laughter. The Doctor seemed put out, but all the same he says: "Why, Jerry, what a capital idea! Let's set up George as a man of property. Your life is worth every penny of six thousand pounds, isn't it now, George?" I tells him: "No, Doctor, it's not worth sixty pence at the moment, apart from these two guineas you've just paid me, and much obliged for them I am, too." "Well, it's about time a hard-working fellow like you should go up in society," says Jerry, "don't you agree, gentlemen?" Mr Cook, he agreed with pleasure, and the Doctor nodded, but as if his mind were busy with other thoughts. Then Jerry says again: "Let's invite George to dinner some day next week—eh, Billy?—and talk it over?" "Very well," says the Doctor, but not too readily. "Bring him to my house." '

I asked George Bate: 'Are you on good terms with Dr Palmer?'

'Oh, yes, Sir!' he answered. 'He never did me no injury, and is always ready to do me a service; so if I'm behind-hand with the rent, it's not his fault. Nor he don't mind my doing a bit of work here, on the side, while the beasts are a-grazing. But I get dead-drunk every Saturday and Sunday night and Lord, how the money flics!'

'So you dined at his house the next week?' I asked.

'Indeed, Sir, that I did!' George answered. 'I'll never forget it. Mr Cook was there, and Cheshire the Postmaster, and Will Saunders, the trainer from Hednesford. When Jerry Smith brought me into the dining-room, Dr Palmer seemed surprised, but Jerry, he says: "You invited this gentleman here, Billy—surely you've not forgotten? He's been looking forward to a good dinner all week." Well, the Doctor makes me welcome, and that was the first time I ever sat down at a gentleman's table, with silver spoons and forks and fancy china, and port poured from a decanter. Jerry Smith told Saunders, who didn't recognize me: "This is George Bate, Esq., a gentleman of property. His cellar is the best in Rugeley. You'll excuse his rough appearance, but he's something of an eccentric: can't be bothered to dress for dinner, nor even change his shirt. He's worth a mint of money, however." Saunders shook hands with me, and I was grateful to Jerry for putting me at my ease; but, not to make a fool of myself, I watched carefully how the other gentlemen handled their knives and forks. I kept mum, as you can guess, except when a discussion came up about Lord George Bentinck's victory with Elis in the 1836 St Leger. It happened that nobody present could remember the name of her companion whom Lord George brought along with him travelling from Goodwood to Doncaster in a six-horse van—the bookmakers laid heavily against Elis, thinking him a non-runner, for it's a good two hundred and fifty miles from Goodwood to Doncaster. The horses got there in time, you know, after stopping

over at Litchfield for a gallop to loosen them up, and Elis wasn't dead meat after all—not by half, he wasn't! So at last I opens my trap. "Drummer was the horse in Lord George's van," I says— just that! And everyone admitted I was right.'

George Bate rambled on of the sporting talk heard at table on that occasion, but I brought him quietly back to the matter of his life insurance. 'Why, for sure,' he said, 'Jerry Smith reminded the Doctor about it after dinner; and the Doctor protested: "Can't we leave this in pickle for another day or two, lad?" "Oh, no," says Jerry, "you pledged your word that you'd do something for George. Now I've taken the trouble to get the papers from The Midland, and suggested Sam Cheshire and Mr Cook and you to vouch for him; so what do you say?" The Doctor answers: "Very well, Jerry, as you please. But I've promised Will Saunders a bit of sport, and we mustn't waste the afternoon." "True enough," says Jerry. "Then permit me to take Will out to the warren, while you and Cook show George how to sign the paper." At this, Jerry and Saunders take their guns and go out. The Doctor stays, and says to Mr Cook: "I'm not sure that the wording's in order. Let's leave it for a day or two." "I'm a qualified solicitor, Billy, you forget," says Mr Cook. "I think George had better sign that paper, here and now, and take his first step towards prosperity." They showed me where to sign, and when Dr Palmer had vouched for my being healthy and sober, Mr Cook witnessed the paper, and sanded it, and folded it away. I never asked what amount had been fixed for the value of my life, but Mr Cook, he looks steadily at Dr Palmer, and says: "We can fix the amount later, but let it be sufficient to pay George his advance of two thousand guineas." The Doctor answers in an offhand manner: "Yes, the amount's of no consequence for so long and valuable a life as George's. Any sum between five and twenty-five thousand pounds will do. Come, Johnny, stop fooling and let's be off! Where's your rabbiting piece?" Then he asked me: "Will you join us, George?" But I shook my head and went home.

George Bate's account suggested to me that Mr Smith had been forcing this insurance on Dr Palmer for a joke, and that the Doctor was putting as good a face on it as possible, but not liking his situation by any means. Cook seemed to have played his part under Smith's direction; but I couldn't fathom what they were at. That night, however, when Inspector Simpson and I compared notes, he having meanwhile talked not only with Walkenden and Dr Waddell—the results of which he's already told you—but also with Mr Lloyd, the landlord of The Junction Hotel, I came to understand the case better.

Jeremiah Smith had involved Dr Palmer's close friends— Cheshire, Cook and Saunders—in the practical joke on George Bate, by way of warning them against the Doctor as one who had procured his own brother's death for the sake of insurance money and might do the same again with any other simple drunkard. He was at the same time warning Dr Palmer not to press The Prince of Wales for payment, because if he did, the truth about his misdeeds must come tumbling out. It may be that Mr Smith suspected Dr Palmer of hastening Walter Palmer's death with prussic acid; for Inspector Simpson has uncovered some odd circumstances which may point that way.

To be explicit: the Boots at The Junction Hotel, Stafford, was entrusted by the Doctor on Wednesday, August 14th, with two bottles wrapped in white paper. Boots guessed from the feel that they were medicine bottles. Dr Palmer asked him to keep them unexposed to the air until he passed by again; which he did an hour later, and fetched them away. He was absent for perhaps another hour, then left them in Boots' charge once more. The next morning, Thursday, he came for the bottles again, took a very small phial from his waistcoat pocket and, having poured a little of its contents drop by drop into one of the bottles, which Boots describes as having been four inches long, returned the phial to his waistcoat pocket. Mr Lloyd, the landlord, happened to visit the stables while the Doctor was engaged in this mixing operation, and reports that he did not look in the least surprised or flurried by the interruption. Mr Lloyd said: 'Good morning, Doctor, and how is your brother today?' Dr Palmer answered: 'He's very ill, very low; I'm going to take him something stimulating. Day, who's attending him, isn't so well acquainted with his habits as I am. Taking his gin away and giving him gruel instead won't help a man who's accustomed to drink heavily; but I hope this medicine will improve matters. He went, very foolishly, to Wolverhampton the day before yesterday. It might have been the death of him, from the state he was in. What a sad thing it is that honest folk like my brother deliberately drink themselves to perdition!'

That was the Thursday of Walter's death. Mr Lloyd told Inspector Simpson that the little phial seemed to contain sal volatile; and that Dr Palmer had bought a bottle of the very best old brandy from him on the previous Saturday, saying:' If my brother wants any more of this, let him have it, and I'll foot the bill.'

Inspector Simpson also visited Messrs Mander & Company, the wholesale chemists of Stafford, and there confirmed, by an interview with George Wyman the assistant, a story current at The Lamb and Flag: Dr Palmer, on the day before Walter's death, had purchased an ounce of prussic acid from Mander's, along with certain other drugs. Inspector Simpson gave this event more importance than I cared to concede. The Doctor, it appeared to me, must have seen clearly enough that Walter was dying of drink, as had been expected, and would hardly have hastened his end by use of a poison which two people had watched him mix. I refused, in fact, to connect the prussic acid with the case. He might well, however, have employed the poison to make rival racehorses 'safe'; and that, I decided, was the explanation. What sort of medicine Mr Lloyd saw him mixing, I cannot say; but why not sal volatile, a harmless stimulant which might persuade Dr Day of an improvement in Walter's health? My guess is that Jerry Smith had heard the gossip, which not only decided him to make a game of Dr Palmer by suggesting the insurance on George Bate's life; he also forwarded the signed proposal to The Midland Company—so that the jest became earnest. He counted, I mean, on The Midland to inquire into George Bate's health and financial stability. They would soon discover that the proposal was fraudulent, and all eyes would then be focused on Walter's death. Smith himself hoped to keep in the background, leaving the insurance companies to carry out their investigations with help from the Police.

Well, I had no means of proving my conjectures, and because Dr Palmer, having long ceased to practise as a surgeon, could be called upon to account for this unusual purchase of prussic acid, I naturally reported the circumstance to The Prince of Wales managers. It also came into my mind that perhaps Cook's demand, during Smith's absence from the dinner table, that George Bate should sign the proposal paper, had decided the Doctor to be revenged on him later. For when Dr Palmer heard from Bate of my questioning him, he said: 'George, you should never have talked to the Inspector. It was cutting your own throat. Now we can't proceed with your insurance, and you'll never be rich. If he comes again, pray tell him that you've given up the idea, and are letting it drop.' But Bate, I now diink, had concluded, with the prompting of his neighbours, that the Doctor's intention was to poison him; and presently revenged himself by setting hounds on the broodmares in his charge, so that two of them slipped their colts. I believe, too, that Dr Palmer, whom the loss of these foals sent into a rage, suspected Cook of having blabbed to Bate; and that this suspicion rankled, because the scheme of insuring Bate's life had not been the Doctor's own, but was foisted on him by Smith. He could not afford to quarrel with Smith, who knew too much, and guessed more; yet he could still play a trick or two on Cook, as I believe he did.

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 Swindell'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.

TOM THE BOOTS

I says: 'I'll take a drop of brandy, if anything, Doctor. It's a chill evening.'

'Then let's go to The Junction,' says he. 'I dpn't want to offend old Lloyd by standing you treat elsewhere.'

So we came back to the bar and he mixed the brandy and water. 'Take it here?' asks the Doctor. To which I answered: "Well, I'd rather take it outside.'

'No, here,' he says. 'What are you afraid of?' And I drank.

The queer thing was it didn't taste queer, but oh, my dear Lord! what happened after? It was just like common brandy and water, as is made hot with sugar, my favourite drink, and I shouldn't have drunk it if it had tasted bad—because I'm very particular with my drinks, always have been, but oh, my dear Lord!

I went out into the yard, and was I took bad? I was indeed! I felt drunk, like. I didn't know where I was, like. I certainly had some recollection of what was said, but my senses were gone, like. Directly I'd drunk it, I knew I'd been nobbled: the drink lay heavy on my stomach, like a crab. Then up it all came. I clapped my hand over my mouth, I ran out that way into the yard and there, just where you're standing, Sir, I threw it up, together with my supper—pig's liver, ale, soused herring, red cabbage and all. It was a fair mess, like. I never was took that way after drinking

brandy, not in all my life before. I don't drink so much of it neither, now. Ten shillings a week is what Lloyd pays me; you can't drink brandy on that, but only ale. And I'd spewed out two good quarts there on the stable floor.

I generally drinks brandy when I can get it. At one time, while I was working for old Mr Venables up by Castle Knoll, who kept a good cellar and didn't mind my sampling it, I used to drink all day, like. I'd begin in the morning and carry it on till night, and I kept this game up for nearly eight year, until Mr Venables died and the cellar ran dry, at much the same time. Then I had to come here to The Junction. Needs must when the Devil drives. Lloyd's ale is good ale for sure, but it ain't brandy; nor don't go well with brandy. The two liquors quarrel, like, in the belly. But they tell me Dr Palmer's a poisoner, so of course he must have gave me arsenic, or something wicked of the same nature, mixed in the water.

I was never so sick in my life before, not after drinking. I went and laid me down in the kitchen; and the missus she comes in and sees me there, all of a tizzy. 'Good God,' says she, 'why, what's the matter, Tom? You look white as a sheet!'

'I've been drinking, Ma'am,' says I.

'What have you been drinking?' she asks me.

'Some brandy and water along with Dr Palmer,' I says.

'The more fool you,' she says. 'Never heard what happened to poor Abley, down at The Lamb and Flag, eleven years ago ? You're poisoned, Tom, that's what you are. Who's your doctor?'

'Dr Palmer,' says I.

'Don't talk foolish, Tom,' says she; so I go and lay me down in one of the stalls, for I couldn't mount the ladder to the loft, nohow I couldn't. My legs, they wouldn't support me, like. Well, I lived, as you see, Sir, and that's more than poor Abley did, nor poor Watty Palmer. But I felt mighty queer for three or four days after. I remember very little about when I woke up, or how long I lay there.

I'm told the ostler came and covered me with a horse-rug. I was as black as soot in the face, he says, which it wasn't only the horse dung on which I'd laid—that I'll swear—and he couldn't hear me breathe, nohow, nor nothing. He thought I was dead, like, and left me there, saying nothing to Mr Lloyd, nor the missus, for fear he'd be blamed. A narrow shave it was, you may be bound, in all honesty!

No, Sir, I never named it to Dr Palmer afterward. I couldn't positively swear that he nobbled me, you see? And he was always a generous gentleman when I ran him his errands.

It is, however, not impossible that these two stories may, after all, have been substantially true—if Dr Palmer's motive was not, in either case, to kill but merely to prostrate his victims and cloud their judgement by the use of 'knocking-out drops': as these are termed in the taverns and brothels of seaport towns, where sailors are forcibly enlisted for long voyages. If Doubt had lost, the Doctor would have been able to tear a page or two from Swindell's betting-book, and empty his money-belt of whatever cash it contained. In Tom's case, he stood to gain nothing but a petty revenge; yet it will be noted that the drug supposedly used on Swindell was a laxative, whereas the one supposedly used on Boots was an emetic. The latter may have been tried experimentally, with more important victims in view.

We can find no confirmation of a rumour, now widely current, that Dr Palmer also attempted to drug Lord George Bentinck, the racehorse owner. This is said to have taken place while he was still a student at Bart's, three years before Lord George's death in 1848; but the exact circumstances are never given.

Chapter XIV

FINANCIAL STRAITS

THE Attorney-General's speech on the opening day of the trial has given a very fair account of Dr Palmer's financial troubles; save that, in our opinion, he misrepresented Jeremiah Smith's humorous proposals for an insurance on George Bate's life as serious ones prompted by the Doctor and designed to improve his own situation. This situation was, indeed, desperate. Yet, after careful thought, we accept his plea of 'Not Guilty' to the charge of taking Cook's life, by strychnine poisoning, with the object of pecuniary gain. The gain would have been utterly inadequate to re-establish his credit; and imprisonment is always a better fate than the gallows. Nor do we believe that strychnia was the cause of Cook's death.

THE ATTORNEY-GENERAL

Gentlemen, it seems that as early as the year 1853, Palmer had got into pecuniary difficulties—he began to raise money on bills. In the year 1854, his circumstances became worse, and he was at that time indebted to different persons in a large sum of money. He then had recourse to an expedient which I shall have to bring before you, because it has an important bearing on this case. Gentlemen, let me make a preliminary observation. I must detail to you transactions involving fraud and, what is graver, forgery— circumstances and transactions reflecting the greatest discredit on those connected with them. Yet while I feel it absolutely necessary to bring these circumstances to your notice for the elucidation of the truth, I am anxious that they should not have more than their fair and legitimate effect. You must not allow them to prejudice your minds against the prisoner as regards the real matter of inquiry here today. A man may be guilty of fraud, he may be guilty of forgery; it does not follow that he should be guilty of murder.

Among the bills on which Palmer raised money, in the course of the year 1854, was one for two thousand pounds, which he discounted with Mr Padwick. That bill bore upon it the acceptance of Palmer's mother, Mrs Sarah Palmer. She is a woman of considerable wealth; and her acceptance, being believed to be genuine, was a security on which money would be readily advanced. Palmer forged that acceptance, and got money upon it; which was, if not the first, at least one of the earlier transactions of that nature—for there are a large series of them—in which money was obtained from bills discounted by Palmer, with his mother's acceptances forged upon them. I shall show you, presently, how this practice involved him in a state of such peril and emergency, that—as we suggest, but it is for you to form your own conclusions—he had recourse to a desperate expedient in order to avoid the imminent consequences.

By the summer of 1854, he owed a very large sum of money. On the 29th of September his wife died; he had an insurance on her life to the amount of thirteen thousand pounds—and the proceeds of that insurance were realized. Palmer used the thirteen thousand pounds to pay off some of his most pressing liabilities. With regard to a part of these liabilities, he employed as his agent a gentleman named Pratt, a solicitor in London, who is in the habit of discounting bills, and whose name will be largely mixed up with the subsequent transactions I shall detail to you. Mr Pratt received from him a sum of eight thousand pounds, and disposed of it in the payment of various liabilities on bills which were in the hands of his own clients. Mr Wright, a solicitor of Birmingham, who had also advanced money to the prisoner, received five thousand more, and thus thirteen thousand of debt was disposed of; but that still left Palmer with considerable liabilities. Among others, the bill for two thousand pounds, discounted by Mr Padwick, remained unpaid.

This brings us to the close of 1854. Early in 1855, Palmer effected another insurance in his brother Walter's name, Mr Pratt acting as his agent; and that policy for thirteen thousand pounds was immediately assigned to Palmer. Mr Pratt paid the first premium for him, out of a bill which he discounted at the rate of sixty per cent, and afterwards proceeded to discount further bills, the insurance policy being held by him as a collateral security. The bills discounted in the course of 1855 reached a total of £12,500. I find that two, discounted as early as June, 1854, were kept alive by being held over from month to month. In March, 1855, two further bills of two thousand pounds each were discounted; and with the proceeds Palmer bought two racehorses, called Nettle and The Chicken. These bills were renewed in June; they became due on the 28th of September and 2nd of October, were then renewed and became due again on the ist and 5di of January, 1856. On the 18th of April, 1855, a bill was discounted for two thousand pounds at three months, which became due on the 22nd of July, and was renewed so as to become due on the 27th of October. On the 23 rd of July, a bill for two thousand pounds, at three mondis, was discounted, which became due on the 25th of October. On the 9th of July, a bill for two thousand pounds, at three months, was drawn; renewed on the 12th of October, it became due on the 12th of January, 1856. On the 27th of September, a bill for one thousand pounds was discounted, at three months, the proceeds of which went to pay the renewal on the two March bills of two thousand pounds, due at the close of September, and the bill of the 23rd of July, due on the 12th of October.

Thus, in the month of November, when the Shrewsbury Races took place, the account stood as follows. There were in Mr Pratt's hands a bill due on the 25th of October for two thousand pounds; another due on the 27th of October for two thousand pounds; two bills, together making one thousand five hundred pounds, due on the 9th of November; a bill, due on the 10th of December for one thousand pounds; one on the 1st of January for two thousand pounds; one on the 5th of January for two thousand pounds; one on the 18th of January for two thousand pounds: making in the whole £12,500. In July, it seems, Palmer contrived to pay one thousand pounds; thus in the month of November bills amounting to £11,500 remained due, and every one of them bore the forged acceptance of the prisoner's mother! You will therefore understand the pressure which necessarily arose upon him, the pressure of enormous liabilities which he had not a shilling in the world to meet, and a still greater pressure arising from the knowledge that, as soon as his mother should be resorted to for payment, the fact of his having committed these forgeries would at once become manifest and bring on him the penalty that the law exacts.

Now, the deceased Mr Cook had been only partially interested in these transactions. I should mention, before I go into the further history of the case, that Walter Palmer, the brother, died in the month of August, 1855. His life had been insured for thirteen thousand pounds, and the policy had been assigned to the prisoner —who, of course, expected that the proceeds would pay off those liabilities. However, the Insurance Office in question declined to pay; consequently there was no assistance to be derived from that source.

As I was saying, Gentlemen, Mr Cook had been, to a certain extent—but only to a very limited extent—mixed up with the prisoner in these pecuniary transactions. It seems that in the month of May, 1855, Palmer was pressed—by a person named Serjeant, I believe—to pay a sum of five hundred pounds on a bill of transaction. At that time, Palmer had in the hands of Mr Pratt a credit balance of three hundred and ten pounds; and asked him for an advance of one hundred and ninety pounds to make up the five hundred. When Mr Pratt refused this advance, except on security, Palmer offered him the acceptance of Cook, representing Mr Cook to be a man of substance; accordingly, the acceptance of Mr Cook for two hundred pounds was sent up, and on it Mr Pratt advanced the money. This appears to have been the first transaction of the kind in which Mr Cook figured, and though not knowing whether it has any immediate bearing on the subject, I am anxious to lay before you all the circumstances which show the relation between Palmer and Cook. Palmer having failed to provide for that bill of two hundred pounds, when it became due, Mr Cook had to provide for it himself, which he did.

In the August of 1855, a transaction took place to which I must again call your particular attention: Palmer informed Mr Pratt that he must have one thousand pounds more by the next Saturday. Mr Pratt declined to advance the thousand pounds without security; whereupon Palmer offered the security of Mr Cook's acceptance for five hundred pounds, again representing him as a man of substance. But Mr Pratt still declined to advance the money without some more tangible security than Mr Cook's mere acceptance. Now, Palmer explained this as a transaction in which Mr Cook required the money, and since I have no means of ascertaining how the matter stood, I will give him the credit to suppose that it was so, and that he had Mr Cook's acquiescence for the proposals he was making to Mr Pratt. Mr Cook was engaged upon the Turf, sometimes winning, sometimes losing; and purchasing horses. It may perfectly well be that he then required this loan of five hundred pounds, as Palmer declared.

Since, as I said before, Mr Pratt declined to advance the money except upon more available security, Palmer proposed an assignment by Mr Cook of two racehorses—the one called Polestar, the horse that afterwards won at Shrewsbury Races, and the other called Sirius—and, as Mr Pratt agreed, this assignment was executed by Mr Cook, in Mr Pratt's favour, as a collateral security for the loan of five hundred pounds. Now, Mr Cook was entitled to as much money as could be realized upon this security; the arrangement being that Mr Pratt should give him a sum of .£375 in money and a wine-warrant for £65 which, with discount for three months at £50, and expenses at £10, made up the total sum of £500. But Palmer contrived that the £375 cheque and the wine-warrant should be sent to him, and not to Mr Cook; for he wrote, desiring that Mr Pratt should forward them to him at the Post Office, Doncaster, where he would see Mr Cook. He could not, in fact, see Mr Cook there, because Mr Cook did not visit Doncaster; but by these means Palmer got the cheque and the wine-warrant into his own hands. He affixed to the face of the cheque a receipt stamp, and availed himself of the opportunity, now afforded by the law, of striking out the word 'bearer', and writing 'order'. The effect of this was, as you are all no doubt aware, to necessitate the endorsement of Mr Cook upon the back of the cheque; but since Palmer did not intend that these proceeds should find their way into Mr Cook's hands, he accordingly forged the signature 'John Parsons Cook' on the back of that cheque. He then paid the cheque into his bankers at Rugeley: the proceeds were realized, paid by the bankers in London, and went to the credit of Palmer. Mr Cook never received the money, and you will see that at the time of his last illness this bill, which was a bill at three months, in respect of these transactions of the 10th of September, would be due in the course often days; when it would appear that Palmer had forged Mr Cook's endorsement on this cheque and pocketed the proceeds.

Gentlemen, I wish that this were the only transaction in which Mr Cook had been mixed up with the prisoner Palmer; but there is another to which I must refer. In the September of 1855, Palmer's brother having died, but the profits of the insurance not having been realized, he induced a person by the name of Bate to insure his life. Palmer had succeeded in raising money on former insurances and, I have no doubt, pressed or induced Mr Cook to assist him in this transaction; his object was, by representing Bate as a man of wealth, and producing a policy on Bate's life, to get further advances upon this collateral security. I put it no higher, nor do I suppose Mr Cook would have been a party to any other transaction. It seems that, on the 5th of September, Mr Bate, the prisoner, and Mr Cook were together at Rugeley. Mr Bate was a hanger-on of Palmer's, a person who had before been better off in the world, but who had fallen in decay and was now compelled to accept employment from Palmer as a sort of superintendent of his stables. He had run through everything, and had nothing left; though he remained a healthy young man. Palmer proposed to insure his life, and handed him that common form of proposal with which we are all familiar. Mr Bate, however, said: 'No, I do not want to insure my life,' and declined the notion of such a thing. Palmer pressed him, and Mr Cook interposed with: 'You had better do it, Bate; it will be for your benefit; you are quite safe with Palmer.' They pressed him to sign the insurance proposal, which Cook attested and Palmer filled in, for no less a sum than twenty-five thousand pounds. In it Palmer was described as the medical attendant, and his assistant, Thirlby, as the referee and friend who would speak to Bate's habits; and these proposals were sent off, I think, to The Solicitors' and General Office. That Office not being disposed to effect the insurance on Bate's life, they sent up another proposal for ten thousand pounds to The Midland Office, on the same life. In each case, further information was required as to Bate's position; but instead of it turning out that he was a gentleman of responsibility and means, it turned out that he was a mere labourer in Palmer's employ. The Office was not satisfied, and the thing dropped.

LORD CAMPBELL. Whatever you have stated so far bears on the question the jury are to try. I suppose that this will have the same tendency?

THE ATTORNEY-GENERAL. If your Lordship trusts me, I will take care not to state anything that is not important.

LORD CAMPBELL. By our law we cannot allow one crime to show the possibility of another, but whatever may bear on the charge to be tried is strictly admissible.

THE ATTORNEY-GENERAL. I trust your Lordship will give me credit for the greatest anxiety not to bring forward anything unimportant. This seems to me a matter which may have a most important bearing by and by.

Gentlemen, the prisoner's attempt failed; and no money could be obtained on the security of that policy. The affair may be important in more ways than one, but it is important in this respect: that it shows the desperate pecuniary straits to which he had by that time been reduced.

Now we go back for a moment to the insurance on the brother's life. I find by the correspondence between Palmer and Mr Pratt, which will be produced to you, that Mr Pratt, having applied to the office at which the insurance on Walter Palmer's life had been effected, experienced difficulty in getting the money, and thereupon began to press Palmer for immediate payment of his bills. These letters are here in my hand; and before reading them, I will state what I shall by and by prove—that Palmer had the Postmaster at Rugeley completely under his influence, and that the letters addressed by Pratt to his mother, Mrs Sarah Palmer, were intercepted in the Post Office and handed over to Palmer himself.

The learned Attorney-General then read extracts from certain letters that passed between Mr Pratt and Palmer in September and October, snowing the manner in which Mr Pratt was pressing Palmer for the payment of various overdue bills and the interest upon them.

Gentlemen, on the 6th of November two writs were issued for four thousand pounds, one against Palmer, the other against his mother. Mr Pratt wrote on the same day, informing Palmer that he had sent these writs to Mr Crabb, but that they would not be served without further direction; he therefore strongly urged Palmer to raise the money, and also to visit him in London and make an arrangement regarding a bill for one thousand five hundred pounds, which would fall due in three days' time. On the 10th of November, the day to which Pratt had said he would delay the service of the writs, Palmer visited London and paid Mr Pratt a sum of three hundred pounds which, with two sums of two hundred and fifty pounds, already paid, made up a total of eight hundred pounds. Mr Pratt deducted two hundred pounds from this, for two months' discount, thus leaving six hundred pounds to the credit of the two-thousand-pound bill falling due on the 25th of October. On the 13th of November, which is a very important day, for it is the one on which Polestar won at Shrewsbury, Mr Pratt writes a letter referring to The Prince of Wales policy, and saying that steps will be taken to enforce its payment by the company.

That, gentlemen, was the state of things in which Palmer was placed on the 13th of November. You will find from this correspondence that Mr Pratt, the agent through whom this bill had been discounted, held at that time twelve thousand five hundred pounds of bills in his hands, minus the six hundred pounds which had been paid off on this, the whole of which bore the forged acceptances of Palmer's mother: acceptances either forged by him or by someone at his desire, and for which, in consequence, Palmer was criminally responsible. You will also find that since The Prince of Wales' Office declined to pay the sum for which Walter Palmer's life had been insured, namely thirteen thousand pounds, Mr Pratt, who held that policy as a collateral security, would not have been justified in furdier renewing these bills. He had therefore issued writs against the mother, which were forthwith to be served in case Palmer could not, at all events, discharge part of his debt.

Now we come to the races at Shrewsbury. Mr Cook was the owner, as you are aware, of a mare called Polestar, which he had entered for the Shrewsbury Handicap. She was very advantageously weighted. The race was run on the 13 th of November, the very day on which Mr Pratt's last letter was written, which would reach Palmer on the next day, the 14th. Polestar won the race. Cook was entitled in the first place to the stakes, which amounted to £424, subject to certain deductions, leaving a net sum of £381 19s. to Cook's credit. He had also betted large sums upon the race, partly for himself and, I am told, partly on commission. As a result, his betting-book showed a winning which amounted, together with the stakes, to two thousand and fifty pounds. Cook had also spent the previous week at the Worcester Races, and by the end of the Shrewsbury Meeting had a sum of seven or eight hundred pounds in his pocket, mainly from bets paid there on the course. Other bets, which he was entitled to be paid at Tattersall's, on the ensuing Monday, amounted, as we shall afterwards find, to one thousand and twenty pounds. He would receive the stakes through Messrs Weatherby, the great racing agents in London, with whom he kept an account, as many betting men do.

Now, within a week of that time, Mr Cook died, and the important inquiry of today is how he met his death; whether by natural means, or whether by the hand of man; and, if the latter, by whose hand?

Chapter XV

DEATH AT THE TALBOT ARMS

THE evidence elicited at the Coroner's inquest on John Parsons Cook, who died at The Talbot Arms Hotel, Rugeley, on November 20th, 1855, exactly a week after Polestar's capture of the Shrewsbury Handicap, has now been supplemented by further evidence elicited at Dr Palmer's trial for murder—some of it, however, plainly irreconcilable with the original depositions made by the same witnesses.

Dr Palmer, it appears, owned so little ready cash on the opening day of the Shrewsbury Meeting, that he borrowed twenty-five pounds for the trip from a Rugeley butcher. He later claimed to have put himself in funds by borrowing another hundred and fifty on the racecourse and laying it on Polestar at seven to one; yet, in fact, he made no cash profit at all, only winning back two hundred and ten pounds from a Mr Butler to whom he had owed seven hundred since the Liverpool Meeting. As soon as the race had been run, Dr Palmer took train back to Rugeley, where he found two letters waiting for him at his house. There was the one from Pratt (mentioned by the Attorney-General), threatening legal proceedings against his mother, if he would not at once pay the fourteen hundred pounds now due and covered by her acceptance. The other came from a Stafford girl named Jane Bergen, whom he had got with child during Eliza Tharm's pregnancy, and for whom he had procured an abortion. She possessed thirty-four love-letters written by him in most lascivious language, and threatened that she would show them to her father unless he paid fifty pounds for their return. At first, she had priced the collection at one hundred pounds—a sum which, he told her, far exceeded their worth.

Elated by Polestar's victory, Cook asked a few of his friends to celebrate it with him by dining at The Raven Hotel, Shrewsbury; where two or three bottles of champagne were consumed. This was Tuesday, November 13 th. He retired to bed in good health and spirits, not having drunk much; and the next day rose cheerfully and visited the course again. There he found Dr Palmer come back from Rugeley and reproached him for not having attended the Polestar dinner. That night, Wednesday, November 14th, at about eleven o'clock, one Mr Ishmael Fisher, a wine merchant of Victoria Street, Holborn—but also a betting-agent who usually collected Cook's winnings, or paid his losses, each settling day at Tattersall's—decided to call on him. Fisher was also lodging at The Raven. When he entered the sitting-room which Cook and Dr Palmer shared, he found the two of them seated at table over brandy and water, in the company of George Myatt and Samuel Cheshire.

Cook invited Fisher to join the party, and then turned to ask Dr Palmer: 'Will you take another glass?'

The Doctor replied: 'Not until you down yours. You must play fair, old cock—drink for drink, and no heel-taps.'

'Oh, that's soon done,' cried Cook, and seizing the tumbler, half full of strong brandy and water, which stood on the table before him, tossed it off at a gulp, leaving perhaps a teaspoonful at the bottom of the glass.

A minute later, he complained that the grog tasted queer, and looked accusingly at Dr Palmer.

The Doctor reached for Cook's tumbler, sipped the little liquor remaining, rolled it around his tongue, and exclaimed: 'Come, what's the game, Johnny? There's no taste but brandy here.'

Cook then made some remark, about how dreadfully his throat had been burned, which was interrupted by a second knock on the door. Another wine merchant, named Read, whose tavern near Farringdon Market is a favourite haunt of many sporting men, entered to congratulate Cook on his success. Dr Palmer, pushing the glass towards Read and Fisher, said: 'Cook fancies that there's something in this brandy and water. Taste it! I've just done so myself.'

Read laughed and answered: 'It's easy enough to say "Taste it!", but you've swigged the lot between you. Fetch me more of the same brew, and I'll give you my professional verdict.'

'Well, at least smell it,' the Doctor urged him. Read smelt Cook's glass, and could detect no odour but that of spirits. A new decanter of the same brandy was now sent for, and Cook mixed the grog with water poured from the same jug as before. All the guests rose to toast Polestar, a buzz of jovial talk ensued, and Cook's suspicions were forgotten.

Ten minutes later, Cook retired to his bedroom, and presently came back, looking very pale. He told Fisher, who was sprawled on the sofa, that he wished to make a request of him.

Fisher led Cook to his own sitting-room. 'What ails you, friend Johnny?' he asked.

'I've been as sick as a cat,' Cook answered. 'I do believe that damned Palmer dosed my grog, for a lark. Fisher, pray take care of these banknotes, like a good fellow. I trust nobody but you in this Cave of Forty Thieves; and Billy Palmer least of the lot.' He handed over a bulky packet, tied with tape, and sealed. Then he muttered: 'Excuse me, my dear Sir, I must vomit again,' and stumbled off.

On his way along the corridor, he passed a law-stationer by the name of Jones, also lodging at The Raven. Jones remarked to Fisher, who had followed Cook: 'He's got this sickness too, that's knocking people down like ninepins. They all act as though they were poisoned.'

'He thinks he is poisoned,' rejoined Fisher, 'and, what's more, he's drunk enough to accuse his friend Billy Palmer of the deed. I believe, by the bye, that Billy's treating him for the pox.'

Cook then lurched into Fisher's sitting-room. 'I swear that damned Billy Palmer has dosed me!' he repeated; but before he could substantiate the remark, out he had to run again.

Fisher and Jones followed him into his bedroom, where he was vomiting violently into a wash-hand basin. 'Let me send for a doctor,' offered Fisher.

'Pray do so at once,' Cook groaned.

A certain Dr Gibson arrived at half an hour past midnight. Cook complained of pains in his stomach and heat in his throat, repeating constantly: 'I think I have been poisoned.'

Dr Gibson recommended an emetic, but Cook said: 'No, there's no need of anything from a chemist's shop. I can make myself sick on warm water. I often do.'

A drowsy chambermaid brought him a jugful of warm water. When Cook had drained it, Dr Gibson ordered: 'Now tickle the back of your throat with a feather from your pillow, Mr Cook, if you please!'

Cook replied: 'There's no need to open the pillow, either. The handle of my toothbrush will do as usual.'

He presently vomited up the water, having nothing else left to offer the basin. Dr Gibson laid him on the bed, probed his abdomen, found him to be severely constipated, and thereupon prescribed compound rhubarb pills and calomel, to be followed by a black draught of senna and magnesia. With that, he turned on his heel and left the hotel.

Half an hour later, Fisher knocked up Dr Gibson again, telling him: 'Don't go fooling about, Sir; give my friend something to settle him for the night!' Dr Gibson aggrievedly prepared an anodyne draught and paregoric, which Fisher took back to The Raven, and by two o'clock in the morning Cook told his friends that he was somewhat improved. No longer feeling bound to wait up for Dr Palmer, who had some time before disappeared, they bade Cook good-night, and he thanked them heartily.

At nine o'clock Cook arose, shaky and feeble, but much relieved by an undisturbed sleep. He went across the corridor to call on Fisher, from whom he retrieved his packet of notes, still securely sealed. Dr Palmer now returned to The Raven, after an all-night absence. He found Fisher breakfasting, and said:' Cook's recovered, I'm glad to see. But I wish the damned fool wouldn't publicly accuse me of dosing his drink! I've a good mind to sue him for slander.'

'Then what ailed him, Billy?' asked Fisher. 'We were up with him until the small hours.'

'He was beastly drunk, that's what he was,' cried the Doctor. 'And I keep telling him that drink is the worst thing possible for his old complaint.'

'Well, at least his stomach has got a long-delayed clean-out,' remarked Fisher, not wishing to argue the point. 'Dr Gibson told us that Johnny can't have been to the bogs for a week or more.'

There is a certain Mrs Anne Brooks of Manchester who, much against the wish and orders of her husband, a prominent Mancunian, frequents race-meetings, bets on commission, and has at her disposal a number of jockeys for whom she secures mounts. These jockeys, together with black-legs, tipsters and other members of her private intelligence service, form what the French call a salon sportif around this remarkable personage. Mrs Brooks had met Dr Palmer in the street on the Wednesday evening; and when asked what news there was of a horse called Lord Alfred, which the Earl of Derby had entered for the same race next day as Dr Palmer's Chicken, she gaily answered: 'Nay, Lord Alfred's said to be in champion form, lad.'

The Doctor answered: 'Good, Ma'am! That means I'll get longer odds. I'm putting my whole sack on The Chicken.'

At about 10.30 p.m., Mrs Brooks sent a servant to Dr Palmer, requesting a private word with him. When he agreed, the servant showed her upstairs. She found him standing in the corridor, holding a tumbler, which seemed to contain a small quantity of water, close against the gas-light, and examining it. Though Dr Palmer heard her corning, he continued to hold the tumbler in the same position, now and then shaking it.

'Dirty weather tonight,' remarked Mrs Brooks.

'Yes, the running will be agreeably soft tomorrow,' he answered. 'It should suit The Chicken. He loves mud so much, I have a mind to rename him The Duckling. Excuse me, I'll be with you presently.'

He went into his bedroom and, emerging half a minute later, carried the same tumbler into the sitting-room where Cook, Myatt and Cheshire sat drinking convivially. Mrs Brooks waited outside until he fetched her a similar tumbler full of brandy and water, which she drank without any ill consequences. They discussed Lord Alfred's chances in low tones, and the Doctor told her: 'Do as I do, and remember me when you win! I'm still backing The Chicken.' The remainder of their conversation was private, and may well have been sentimental; which would account for Dr Palmer's disappearance from The Raven between midnight and nine-diirty.

According to Mrs Brooks's statement at the Old Bailey, many racing men whom she knew were seized by nausea that Wednesday, and vomited their dinners, and there was talk of a poisoned water supply. She added: 'I assumed Dr Palmer to be mixing a cooling drink when he stood in the corridor.' The Prosecution's case is that the liquid was water doctored with tartar emetic, which is a form of antimony; and that Dr Palmer poured this colourless poison into Cook's tumbler. The Defence contends that he held up to the light a glass of the city's drinking water, in the hope of detecting a cloudiness winch might explain the general sickness. However, we accept neither theory, since Mrs Brooks has since privately told Will Saunders, the trainer: 'Billy Palmer was hinting in dumb-show that Lord Alfred would be made "safe" with a drug of his own concoction. I acted on this hint;

but whether he deceived me, or whether Lord Derby's stablemen were too wide-awake, my people can't find out.' At any rate, Lord Alfred stayed un-nobblcd, The Chicken displayed no liking for mud, and Dr Palmer lost several hundred pounds.

On the Thursday evening, the races over, Dr Palmer, Cook, Cheshire, and Myatt caught the express train to Stafford, and thence went together by fly to Rugeley, where the Doctor engaged a room at The Talbot Arms Hotel for Cook. If we are to

THE TALBOT ARMS, RUGELEY, THE SCENE OF COOK'S DEATH

believe Mr Herring, the betting-agent, who had attended the Polestar dinner, Cook asked him on the Thursday morning: 'Don't you think Palmer drugged me last night?'

'I shouldn't like to venture an opinion,' Herring answered, 'but if you so mistrust him, why are you going to Rugeley with him tonight?'

Cook, Mr Herring declares, replied sadly: 'I really must go there: you don't know all.'

Mr Herring, alias Mr Howard, is held in high esteem by his clients, and we should be prepared to accept his word; save that he told this story (which makes remarkably little sense) while smarting under a natural resentment. Dr Palmer had, by then, swindled him out of a large sum of money.

Perhaps the following light-hearted account of Mr Cook's illness at Shrewsbury, which appeared in a London newspaper on the last day of the Meeting, may not be far from the truth:

After indulging freely in the foreign wines of Shrewsbury, the owner of Polestar called for brandy and water to restore his British stolidity. Tossing off his glass, he grumbled that there was something in it, and complained of a burned throat. Perhaps those who have drunk strong brandy and water with similar haste may recognize the sensation; perhaps also, like Mr Cook, they have vomited afterwards. Mr Cook bolted his brandy and water down at Dr Palmer's challenge and bolted it up again when it encountered the cold champagne. That night he was very drunk, and very sick, and very ill. His dinner he cast into a basin; his money he deposited with his friend Mr Ishmael Fisher, a sporting City wine merchant, expressing his belief at the same time that Dr Palmer had dosed him for the sake of his money. If such had been the Doctor's intention, would he not have followed his victim from the room and kept close to him all night? But he never went near the ailing Mr Cook, a neglect that certainly shows how hollow was his friendship, yet proves his innocence; for a guilty man would have been much more officious. The next morning, Mr Cook looked very ill, as men are apt to do after excessive vinous vomiting, but his drunken suspicions of Dr Palmer had evaporated with the fumes of the brandy, and they were again friends and brother-sportsmen.

Arrived at Rugeley, Cook retired to his room at The Talbot Arms Hotel, where he lay in bed all night, and all the next morning. At one o'clock, he got up for a walk through the town; ate bread and cheese with Jeremiah Smith at The Shoulder of Mutton, and watched some lads playing an unseasonable game of cricket. Without revisiting The Talbot Arms, he then accompanied Smith to dinner at Dr Palmer's house. At about 10 p.m., he went across the street and back to bed. That was Friday, November 16th; and early on Saturday morning, Dr Palmer came knocking at his bedroom door to announce breakfast. It had been agreed that Cook should lodge at the hotel, but take his meals at the Doctor's.

Since the subsequent events are obscured by a conflict of evidence, we shall content ourselves with a summary of unchallenged facts. That Saturday morning, Cook preferred to drink a cup of coffee in bed rather than step over to Dr Palmer's and breakfast on bacon and eggs. Coffee was accordingly brought up by Elizabeth Mills, the flirtatious young chambermaid, who placed it in his hands; and the Doctor departed to his own breakfast. An hour later, Cook was seized by the same nausea as had plagued him at Shrewsbury, and vomited the coffee into a chamber pot. By this time, Dr Palmer had gone off to Hednesford for a review of his horses. Soon after he had returned, Mrs Ann Rowley, of The Albion Inn, arrived with a saucepan of broth and put it by a fire in the back kitchen to warm. 'Mr Jerry Smith's compliments, and this is a gift for Mr Cook,' she told him. Dr Palmer presently

ELIZABETH MULS, CHAMBERMAID AT THE TALBOT ARMS

poured the broth into a 'sick-cup', a covered two-handled vessel used by invalids, and sent it to The Talbot Arms with Smith's message. The cup, on arrival at the hotel, was taken up to Cook by a hare-lipped waitress named Lavinia Barnes. Cook at first refused the broth, complaining that he felt sure it would not stay on his queasy stomach; but the Doctor, who then appeared, persuaded him to try it. Cook proved to be in the right: for the broth followed the coffee into the chamber pot without a moment's delay.

At three o'clock, old Dr Bamford of Rugeley visited Cook, as requested by Dr Palmer; but, not taking a serious view of the case, merely prescribed rest and a diet or slops. Later, Cook was brought barley-water and arrowroot from the hotel kitchen, which his stomach seems to have retained. Dr Palmer was in and out of Cook's bedroom all day, and that night Jeremiah Smith occupied the spare bed to keep him company.

At about noon on that Sunday, November 18th, Dr Palmer's gardener brought over a second gift of broth, likewise made at The Albion Inn by Mrs Rowley. In The Talbot Arms kitchen, Elizabeth Mills sipped at the broth and said that it tasted very good—of turnips and celery. How much of the beverage Cook kept down is not recorded; at all events, he had only occasional short bouts of vomiting that afternoon, and appeared to be in high spirits. Nevertheless, Dr Palmer, remembering Cook's recent suspicions of him, wrote as follows to Dr William Henry Jones of Lutterworth, Cook's most intimate friend, who had taken part in the Polestar celebrations at The Raven Hotel, and was a surgeon of repute:

My Dear Sir,

Mr Cook was taken ill at Shrewsbury and obliged to call in a medical man. Since then he has been confined to his bed with a very severe bilious attack, combined with diarrhoea; and I think it advisable for you to come to see him as soon as possible.

Yours very truly,

Wm Palmer

Nobody slept in Cook's room that night. The next morning he told Elizabeth Mills, when she inquired after his hcaldi: 'I'm tolerably well now, thank you kindly, but what I suffered! I was just mad for two minutes a little before midnight.'

She asked: 'What do you mean, Sir?'

Cook explained that, when he awoke, he had been in an agony of terror—possibly alarmed by the noise of a street quarrel.

'Why didn't you ring the bell for me?' she asked winsomely.

'I feared you would all be asleep, and didn't want to disturb you,' Cook replied with a slight frown. 'At any rate, the madness passed, thank Heaven, and I managed to drop off again without rousing the household.'

On Monday, November 19th, Dr Palmer travelled to London, where he had an appointment to meet Mr Herring, the commission-agent. Arriving at Beaufort Buildings, off the Strand, soon after one o'clock, the Doctor apologized that Cook had been unable to accompany him. 'The poor fellow's still suffering from his Shrewsbury sickness. His physician has prescribed calomel, and told him to keep indoors, out of the damp,' he said. ' So he's entrusted me with a list of bets to be settled this afternoon at Tattersall's. He wants you to handle them this time; because (strictly between the two of us) he now regards Fisher as somewhat unreliable. It seems that there should have been more money left in a packet of bank-notes which he entrusted to Fisher as soon as the puking fit began.'

When Mr Herring accepted the commission, Dr Palmer read out a list of the various sums due from the layers against Polestar, and instructed him to pay Cook's creditors with the proceeds— though these were, in reality, his own creditors: Pratt for four hundred and fifty pounds, Padwick for three hundred and fifty pounds, etc. He had, it seems, compiled the list of winnings from Cook's betting-book, temporarily abstracted from where it hung against the bedroom mirror. The three hundred and fifty pounds paid to Pratt—not in settlement, but merely on account, of larger debts—would stave off the threatened writ against old Mrs Palmer. Herring duly collected the money (all except three stakes, which had not yet come in) and made the payments without further question, afterwards writing to tell Cook what had been done. Why Dr Palmer engaged Herring rather than Fisher to collect Cook s debts can be simply explained. Not only did Cook owe Fisher two hundred pounds, which would have been deducted from the total, but Fisher knew that Dr Palmer had no right to any of Cook's winnings.

Meanwhile, Cook felt a deal better, though exceedingly weak. He got up once more, shaved, washed and dressed himself as if to go out. Mrs Bond, the housekeeper, sent him some arrowroot, which he managed to retain, and three visitors came calling: Will Saunders, the Hednesford trainer, and the two brothers Ashmole, both jockeys. When they left early in the afternoon, he went back to bed, and appeared happily relaxed. At about 8 p.m., Dr Bamford sent him a small box of morphine pills, which were placed on the bedside table. Dr Palmer left London by the express train, reaching Stafford at 8.45 p.m., took a fly from thence to Rugeley—an hour's drive—and on arrival briefly visited Cook before obeying an angry summons from old Mrs Palmer at The Yard. That night, one of the maids noticed the betting-book hanging against the mirror.

At a quarter to twelve, Lavinia Barnes aroused Elizabedi Mills, who was already asleep, saying that Cook had been taken ill again and rung for assistance. Elizabeth Mills dressed hurriedly and, hearing screams, entered Cook's room. She found him seated upright in bed, madly threshing the coverlet with his hands. His pillow lay on the floor. When he demanded Dr Palmer, she said that Lavinia Barnes must have run across the road to summon him, and indeed the Doctor appeared two or three minutes later. He administered the pills left by Dr Bamford—these, however, stuck in Cook's throat—and made Elizabeth Mills give him a tablespoonful of toast-and-water to help them down. Next, he administered a dark, thick, heavy-looking draught which, when Cook vomited it up again, left an odour like opium hanging about the room. Dr Palmer asked Lavinia Barnes to hold a candle while he took a quill from his bag and with it searched for the pills in Cook's vomit. They did not appear to have been returned.

Cook now seemed better, but asked, would Dr Palmer kindly listen to his heart, how loud it was beating? The Doctor, having obligingly listened, reassured him that all was well. Presently the women went to bed, and Dr Palmer stayed with Cook until shortly before dawn.

Dr Jones of Lutterworth, a well-qualified and most experienced medical man, had been unable to visit Cook on the Monday, although Dr Palmer's request reached him by the first post. He was himself still suffering from the epidemic of nausea that, as we know, affected many other visitors to Shrewsbury Meeting. However, he arrived by train at three o'clock on the Tuesday, which was November 20th. Dr Jones found Cook's pulse steady and, learning that his bowels were now acting normally, and that he felt fairly comfortable, made no prescription; but saw him several times in the course of the afternoon.

That evening, Samuel Cheshire got a written message from Dr Palmer: 'Pray come to my place, Sammy, and bring a receipt stamp with you.' When Cheshire complied, Dr Palmer told him that it was imperative for an order to be sent by Cook to Mr Weatherby, Secretary of the Jockey Club, at Birmingham; but that Cook was too sick to sign anything. He therefore begged Cheshire to do him a great favour, namely copy an order, which he had drafted, and sign it in Cook's name. 'It concerns Cook's racing debts to me,' he said. 'I can't wait for his recovery, because if I don't get the money by Thursday, the bailiffs will seize the furniture of this house.'

Cheshire obligingly copied out: 'Please pay Mr William Palmer

the sum of £350'' signed himself: 'J. P. Cook.' This order Dr Palmer posted to Mr Weatherby's office, with a covering note:

Gentlemen,

I shall thank you to send me a cheque to the amount of the enclosed order. Mr Cook has been confined here to his bed with a bilious attack which has prevented him from being in town.

Yours respectfully,

Wm Palmer

When Dr Bamford called again at seven o'clock, he, Dr Jones, and Dr Palmer held a consultation. Dr Palmer suggested that, aldiough Cook objected to Dr Bamford's morphine pills which were administered on the Monday night, he should nevertheless be given a second dose.

That night, the spare bed in Cook's room was made up for Dr Jones. At about eleven o'clock, Dr Palmer brought the morphine pills in a box wrapped around with the paper of directions. 'What an excellent handwriting Dr Bamford has, for so old a man!' he remarked, and Dr Jones agreed. Though Cook at first refused to take the pills, on the ground that the others had made him so ill, he yielded after a while. The two doctors were soon searching for the pills in the toast-and-water which he had immediately vomited, but could not find them.

Cook, relieved by the vomiting, got up and sat in a chair by the fire, where he joked with Dr Jones of what sport he would have in the hunting field that winter. Dr Palmer had already said goodnight. Dr Jones went contentedly down to his supper, from which he returned at 11.45 p.m. Cook was now in bed, but still awake, and ready for another drowsy fox-hunting chat. All of a sudden, before Dr Jones had fallen asleep, Cook sang out: 'Doctor, Doctor, I'm going to be ill again! Ring the bell and send for Billy Palmer!'

He did so, and Dr Palmer was there within the space of two or three minutes, remarking: 'I never dressed so quickly in my life.' Meanwhile, Cook had asked Dr Jones to rub the nape of his neck. Dr Jones, who complied, found a certain stiffness of the neck muscles. Dr Palmer had brought two ammonia pills, which Cook swallowed but then uttered a cry of agony, and flung himself back on the bed.

There being only a single mould-candle in the room, Dr Jones could not get a clear view of Cook's face, which lay in the shadow of the chamber pot on the bedside table; yet his body was dreadfully convulsed and all the muscles were in spasm. Cook gasped: 'Raise me up, or I shall suffocate.' Though the two doctors tried to raise him into a sitting position, his head and spine were bent back like a bow, and they could do nothing. Dr Palmer hurried away to fetch spirits of ammonia from his surgery. On the stair, he met Elizabeth Mills and Lavinia Barnes, and when they asked after Cook, waved them away. 'Be off with you, my good girls!' he said, 'Cook's not so bad by a fiftieth part as he was last night.' Nevertheless, they were not to be got rid of and, as soon as he returned, followed him into the sickroom.

They heard Cook say: 'Turn me over on my side,' and when this was done, he lay quiet.

Dr Palmer prepared to administer the ammonia as a stimulant, but first felt Cook's pulse. Suddenly he turned to Dr Jones and the maids by the bedside and cried, aghast: 'Oh, my God! The poor devil has gone!' Dr Jones listened to the heart with a stethoscope—a curious instrument, somewhat like a sixpenny trumpet —and agreed that life was extinct. The convulsions had lasted for a quarter of an hour only.

The maids were sent off to summon Dr Bamford and, while Dr Jones took a glass of spirits at the bar with Masters, the landlord, Dr Palmer stayed by the corpse. Elizabeth Mills, returning to announce that Dr Bamford would soon come, found him going through Cook's pockets and feeling beneath his pillow and bolster. Later, he handed Dr Jones, as Cook's nearest friend, five pounds in sovereigns and half-sovereigns, five shillings in silver, and the dead man's gold watch and fob; but neither bank-notes nor personal papers. In answer to Dr Jones's inquiries, Dr Palmer said: 'No, somehow I can't find the betting-book. Still, it's not a particle of use to anyone. Death, my good Sir, voids all gambling debts.' After a while, he added: 'I doubt if you are aware, Jones, what a very bad thing for me this is? Cook and I jointly owe betting debts of between three and four thousand pounds. Let us hope Cook's friends won't make me responsible for his share as well; because, unless they show me a little charity, every one of my horses will be seized.'

Layers-out were sent for, but it was not until one o'clock in the morning that a respectable widow named Mary Keeling arrived, with her sister-in-law, to undertake the task. Mrs Keeling had been delayed by the necessity of engaging a neighbour to look after her sick child while she was absent from home. The two women found the corpse lying so stiffly on the bed that they needed tape in securing the arms, which Elizabeth Mills had officiously crossed over the breast, to either side of the body; and in making the right foot, which was twisted outwards, lie flat against its fellow; they also experienced great difficulty in closing the eyes. However, attendants at a deathbed usually close the corpse's eyes, place its arms along the sides, and straighten its feet as soon as the last moment has come; the rigour was therefore less remarkable than the Prosecution has alleged. Indeed, Cook's body must have been perfectly lax at death, to let Elizabeth Mills cross the arms over his heart.

Dr Jones at first suspected tetanus but, since some of the symptoms seemed irreconcilable with this diagnosis, afterwards decided that Cook died of violent convulsions, due to over-excitement. Upon Dr Bamford's suggesting apoplexy, he replied that, though the case still puzzled him, the seizure, in his opinion, rather pointed to epilepsy.

Chapter XVI

STEPFATHER TO THE DECEASED

ON Wednesday, November 21st, the morning of Cook's death, Palmer wrote to Pratt, the moneylender:

My dear Sir,

Ever since I saw you I have been fully engaged with Cook and not able to leave home. I am sorry to say that, after all, he died today. So you had better write to Saunders; but, mind you, I must have Polestar if it can be so arranged; and should anyone seek to know what money or moneys Cook ever had from you, don't answer questions until I have seen you.

I will send you the £75 tomorrow and, as soon as I have been to Manchester, you shall hear about other moneys. I sat up two full nights with Cook and am very much tired out.

Yours faithfully,

William Palmer

Pratt replied by return of post:

My dear Sir,

I have your note and am greatly disappointed at the non-receipt of the money as promised, and the vague assurances as to any other payment. I can understand, 'tis true, that your being detained by the illness of your friend has been the cause of not sending up the larger amount, but the smaller sum you ought to have sent.

If anything unpleasant occurs, you must thank yourself. The death of Mr Cook will now compel you to look out as to the payment of the bill for j£5°° on the 2nd of December.

Yours faithfully,

Thos. Pratt

The seventy-five pounds which Dr Palmer intended for Pratt was to come from the three hundred and fifty pounds which Weatherby owed Cook; and the five hundred mentioned by Pratt was the loan made to the Doctor in September, supposedly on Cook's behalf, and supported by an assignment of Polestar and his

stablemate Sirius. Dr Palmer, as has already been explained, had laid his hands on this money by forging Cook's receipts to Pratt's cheque, and placing it in his own account at the bank. He now also wanted Polestar, the value of which had risen to over seven hundred pounds. However, Weatherby did not send the three hundred and fifty pound cheque, being mistakenly informed by the Clerk of the Course at Shrewsbury that Cook had already received the value of the Handicap Stakes, and thereby exhausted his funds.

On November 26th, Dr Palmer wrote to Pratt again: Strictly Private & Confidential

My dear Sir,

Should any of Cook's friends call upon you to know what money Cook ever had from you, pray don t answer that question or any other about money matters until I have seen you. And oblige

Yours faithfully,

William Palmer

This anxiety about possible inquiries resulted from the suspicions of Dr Palmer which Cook's next-of-kin, Mr William Vernon Stevens, began to entertain. Mr Stevens, a retired City merchant, had married Cook's mother (now dead) eighteen years previously; and been made executor to his father-in-law's will, under which Cook inherited twelve thousand pounds. He last saw Cook alive at Euston Square station, a fortnight before he died. His greeting on that occasion was: 'My boy, you seem to be very well; you don't look anything of an invalid.' Cook, striking himself firmly on the chest, exclaimed: 'Indeed, I'm quite well now, Pater, and I'd be a happy man but for so many financial anxieties.'

Mr Stevens, not having heard of Cook's illness, was shocked when Dr Jones arrived on November 22nd to report his death, bringing with him the five guineas and the watch. The next day, accompanied by Dr Jones, he visited Lutterworth to search for Cook's will and any personal papers he might have left. They found the will, which appointed Mr Stevens sole executor, and took it to Rugeley that Friday, November 28th.

Meanwhile, Dr Palmer had gone up to London, where he paid Pratt one hundred pounds on account. He also paid some Rugeley drapers sixty pounds, long owing them, plus the cost of a writ issued against him; and settled a debt of some forty-six pounds with Spdlsbury, a local farmer who had supplied fodder to his mares. This money Dr Palmer cannot have drawn from the Market Square bank, where his balance then stood at no more than £9 6s.; and since the packet of notes which Fisher returned to Cook were missing from the money-belt, it looks as if the Doctor had purloined them.

Mr Stevens met Dr Palmer in a corridor at The Talbot Arms Hotel, and at once asked to be shown the body. It is important to observe that Dr Jones, who had been Mr Stevens's constant companion for the past two days, made no suggestion to him of foul play, but only mentioned the mysterious disappearance of the betting-book. Thus Mr Stevens was the first to suspect that the death had been caused by poison.

When informed of the arrival of Cook's stepfather, the story goes, Dr Palmer exclaimed:' Good God! But he has no relatives!' This, however, is a plain fabrication. Dr Palmer had met Mr Stevens, briefly, at Lutterworth in 1854, and told The Talbot Arms maids of his existence shortly before Cook died. He also knew that Cook had a sister and a half-brother living, and a maternal uncle who owed him money.

Mr Stevens went upstairs with Dr Palmer to view the body; and the door, locked on the morning of the death, was opened for him. The sole visitor since then had been Dr Palmer himself when he borrowed the key, on the excuse of retrieving a silver paper-knife which he had lent to Cook, and rummaged awhile in the chest-of-drawers and cupboard. Dr Palmer now removed the sheet from the corpse. The tightly drawn skin across the face surprised Mr Stevens, though a corpse's appearance sixty hours after death can be but a poor indication of how it looked at the time of death. He came down to one of the sitting-rooms, where he called for drinks, and presently addressed Dr Palmer: 'I hear from Jones that you know something of my stepson's affairs.'

'Indeed I do,' was the ready answer, 'and I'm sorry to say he had four thousand pounds' worth of bills out with moneylenders. The Devil is that they bear my name. Fortunately, however, Mr Cook signed a paper drawn up by our lawyer, which proves that I never received any money from him to cover this friendly accommodation.'

'Four thousand pounds!' exclaimed Mr Stevens. 'Impossible! How could he have incurred so large a debt?'

'By betting heavily and unwisely,' the Doctor replied.

'Well,' said Mr Stevens, 'I fear there won't be four thousand shillings to pay you from his bank account or mercantile investments. Moreover, his house is entailed and reverts to a sister. Tell me: has he no horses? And no sporting debts owing to him?'

'Why, yes, he has some horses,' Dr Palmer sighed, 'but they are mortgaged; and his sporting creditors outnumber the debtors. I do know of three hundred pounds owed him by an uncle, which may be recoverable; yet this is not a racecourse debt, and I understand the uncle to be in poor health and circumstances.'

Mr Stevens said: 'Well, I suppose his creditors had better take his sporting effects. I want nothing to do with the business myself, having always set my face against the Turf and, so long ago as 1852, warned him that it would prove his undoing. But whether he has left money or not, John must be buried.'

'Oh, I'll bury him myself, if that's all,' cried Dr Palmer.

Mr Stevens protested: 'My dear Sir, I certainly couldn't think of your doing that, since you stand to lose so much by his death. I shall see to everything.'

Meanwhile, Cook's brother-in-law, Mr Bradford, had arrived and also expressed a wish to undertake this melancholy task, yet Mr Stevens, as executor, would not budge from his resolution. 'No,' he said, 'I shall arrange it, though the funeral cannot take place immediately, because he must go to London for burial in his mother's grave. I'm sorry to inconvenience the landlord by keeping the corpse here a little longer, but all arrangements will be made as soon as possible.'

Dr Palmer shrugged his shoulders, saying: 'Oh, that's of no consequence for a day or two. Nevertheless, he surely ought to be fastened up at once? The poor beggar was diseased.'

Dr Palmer and Dr Jones then went away, leaving Mr Stevens in earnest talk with his son-in-law. Half an hour later, they returned, and Mr Stevens asked: 'Can you give me the name of a reputable undertaker in this town? I should like to order a coffin.'

Dr Palmer smiled amiably. 'Keeyes is the very man,' he said, 'and I have already been and done what you suggest. I ordered a shell and a strong oak coffin.'

'Humph!' ejaculated Mr Stevens, in surprise and displeasure. 'I gave you no authority for that. I must see Keeyes and instruct him myself.'

The Doctor had, in fact, gone to Keeyes and told him: 'My friend Mr Cook has died of a nasty disease, and needs a strong oak box. I advise you to screw him down quick.'

Mr Stevens, having already ordered dinner at The Talbot Arms for himself, his son-in-law, and Dr Jones, invited Dr Palmer to join them. Meanwhile, he went out and strolled through the town. They all dined together at three o'clock. Afterwards he asked Dr Jones to be so good as to get him Cook's betting-book and whatever other papers might be in the death-room. Dr Jones climbed upstairs, followed by Dr Palmer, and about ten minutes later both came down again. Dr Jones reported: 'I regret to say, Sir, that the betting-book is still missing, nor can we find any personal papers.'

'No betting-book!' exclaimed Mr Stevens. 'But he always carried one: a long, green-covered book with gilt edges, a clasp, and a pencil-holder.' Turning to Dr Palmer, he asked abruptly: 'How is this?'

The Doctor said: "Why, Sir, the betting-book will be no manner of use even if you find it.'

'No use, Sir?' Mr Stevens expostulated. 'Pray don't try to gammon me. I am the best judge of its use, I believe. Dr Jones informs me that my stepson won a large sum of money at Shrewsbury, and calculated his winnings from the book in his presence. I ought to know something about that.'

The Doctor repeated: 'It is no manner of use, I assure you. When a man dies, his sporting bets the with him, and Mr Cook received the greater part of his money on the course at Shrewsbury.'

"Then where is it now?' asked Mr Stevens. 'He will have carried the notes in his money-belt.'

'I should hope, Sir, you're not accusing me,' Dr Palmer cried in menacing tones.

'Gentlemen, gentlemen, pray let us all be civil!' pleaded Dr Jones.

'I accuse nobody for the present,' said Mr Stevens. 'But the betting-book must be found.

Dr Palmer replied in a quieter voice: 'Oh, it will be found, no doubt.'

'Sir, it shallbe found,' Mr Stevens insisted. He opened the door and calling to Mrs Bond, the housekeeper, who stood behind the bar, announced: 'Madam, it is my desire as the executor of the late John Parsons Cook that everything in the room where his corpse lies shall be locked up. No persons whatsoever must be admitted until I either return or send someone with authority to take possession. And before I catch the London express, I shall view the corpse once more; for I'm by no means satisfied that my stepson met his end fairly.'

He went upstairs to the death-room where, at his instructions, Mr Keeyes the undertaker had measured the body for a coffin and, with the help of his assistant, already placed it inside a shell. Mr Stevens knelt down beside the corpse for a last farewell, taking one cold hand in his. He noticed that it was tightly clenched, and so also was the other hand. Then he descended, bade Dr Palmer a curt good-bye, adding: 'You shall hear from me again, Sir!' and strode briskly off to the railway station.

In London, he communicated with Cook's sick uncle, and with his own solicitors, who recommended that he should entrust his affairs to a respectable firm of Rugeley solicitors named Gardiner & Landor. The next day, Saturday, November 24th, on the platform of Euston Square station, he ran into Dr Palmer, who greeted him effusively with: 'Why, good day, Mr Stevens! Are you by any chance travelling down to Rugeley?'