I have your letter of inquiry with regard to the circumstances attending
your late father’s unfortunate death. I quite understand that you are
anxious to have the fullest information about it, and will do my best to
clear up the various points you raise.
You may rest fully assured that the death was in fact due to the cause
stated at the inquest, viz.: poisoning by muscarine, the poisonous
principle of the fungus _Amanita muscaria_. In such a case I should not
confine myself to searching for the particular poison suggested by the
circumstances, but should search, as a matter of routine, for all the
various classes of scheduled poisons, including not only the other
vegetable alkalis but also the metallic poisons. The analysis was made
with great care, and I can confidently state that every possibility was
eliminated, except that of poisoning by muscarine. This poison, which
was present in very considerable quantities, was unmistakably
identified, while the symptoms and post-mortem appearances, as reported
by the witnesses, were indubitably consistent with this form of
poisoning.
I may add that preparations of the viscera, vomit, etc., and the
unconsumed part of the dish of fungi have been preserved untouched, as
is my invariable custom in such cases, so as to be available for future
reference or analysis in case of any further question being raised.
Humanly speaking, however, you may rely absolutely on the accuracy of my
results.
With regard to the composition of the dish, I find, on referring to my
notes, that this consisted of fungi exhibiting the structural features
of _Amanita_, stewed whole in a preparation of beef broth, flavoured
with garlic and pot-vegetables.
Your further question displays a slight misapprehension. The isolation
of muscarine itself in a pure state from the fungus would be a chemical
experiment of considerable difficulty, and has, so far as I know, been
accomplished only by two men, Harnack and Nothnagel; their results have
not, I believe, received confirmation as yet. Choline aurichloride and
muscarine aurichloride have been obtained by Harnack from fractionation
of extracts of the fungus, and, more recently, King obtained muscarine
chloride from the same source. But I conceive your question to mean,
simply, “Could a poisonous liquid be produced by simply boiling the
fungus in water of broth?” To this, my answer is, Yes; the liquid part
of a stew made with _Amanita muscaria_ would be equally poisonous with
the solid part. In fact, according to Dixon Mann, the solid parts of the
fungus, when thoroughly desiccated, are harmless, and are eaten with
impunity in certain parts of the Continent, so that the juices when
extracted by ebullition would probably contain a greater proportion of
poisonous matter than the solid residue.
Trusting that these facts are what you require,
I remain,
Yours faithfully,
JAMES LUBBOCK
* * * * *
* * * * *
The ground being thus cleared for my investigations, I determined to
clear up the Manaton end of the thing first, Munting having meanwhile
undertaken to make inquiries as to Lathom’s movements in London on the
17th and 18th of October.
“The Shack” had been locked up, and the key deposited with the local
constable. Being the executor under my father’s will, I had no
difficulty in obtaining it, and took the opportunity of asking a few
questions at the public-house. All I could gather was, however, that Mr.
Lathom had knocked them up on the Saturday night in a “terrible state”
and “looking as though he had seen a ghost,” and had announced that Mr.
Harrison had been found dead. As he seemed on the point of collapse, the
publican had comforted him with strong drink and had himself summoned
the police from Bovey Tracey, the village constable being, as it
happened, absent on some duty or other. While waiting, Mr. Lathom had
recovered himself and had asked to make a trunk call to town. This was,
of course, the call to Margaret Harrison. The telephone is in the
landlord’s private room, and the landlord had, with a proper delicacy,
retired and shut the door on his guest, so that nothing had been
overheard. On coming out, Lathom had seemed greatly agitated, and had
explained that he had been breaking the news to the dead man’s family.
This was disappointing, as it would have been interesting to know in
what words Lathom had announced the event. From Margaret Harrison’s
letter, however, it seems that he represented the thing as an accident.
Yet she must surely have had her suspicions of a death occurring so
opportunely and so pat upon her own instigations to murder. Possibly she
managed to convince even herself by her hypocrisy—Munting thinks it not
unlikely, and no doubt he has had experience of her type of mentality.
I next obtained the address of the labourer, Harold Coffin. His wife was
at home, and informed me that I should find her husband at work carting
some timber which had fallen in the recent gale. If I followed the lane
leading down past “The Shack” I could not miss him. Following these
directions, I came upon him on the outskirts of a small wood. He was
very ready to tell me all he knew, and led me at once to the spot, not
very far away, where he had last seen my father.
It was, of course, too late in the season for _Amanita rubescens_, but
the site which he pointed out seemed suitable enough for it, and he
also, without being prompted, mentioned that he had often seen fungi
growing there, of a reddish-brown colour with grey patches on the top. I
took _Edible and Poisonous Fungi_ from my pocket and asked him to look
through it. He hesitated some time between the pictures of _Amanita
rubescens_ and _Amanita muscaria_, and finally said he thought it might
be one of those two. The colour of _Amanita muscaria_ seemed a bit
overdone, he thought, but then, pictures in books wasn’t always right,
was they, sir? The wood, locally known as Five-Acre Wood, was a great
place for toadstools, and he had often seen my father gathering the
great _Hepatica_ fungus from the trees—the huge liver-coloured lumps
commonly known as “Poor Man’s Beefsteak.” Coffin was quite clear that my
father was actually gathering fungi, and not merely looking for them. My
father had spoken to him and said something about, “Getting my supper,
you see, Coffin. You ought to try some yourself; you’re missing a
treat.” Coffin had often thought of those cheerful words when he heard
of the poor gentleman’s death, and had taken them as a warning.
Coffin said he knew Mr. Lathom quite well by sight, having met him from
time to time in the public-house when having a friendly glass. He had
never seen him in the Five-Acre Wood but once, and that was with Mr.
Harrison, about a week before the latter’s death. His own work had lain
in and about the Five-Acre during the first fortnight of October—he was
employed by Mr. Carey—all this round here was Mr. Carey’s land—and he
thought he should have seen Mr. Lathom if he had come there alone at any
time.
Having thanked and rewarded Coffin, I made my way to “The Shack.” Except
for the removal of the bedclothes and other objects required for the
inquest it was exactly as it had been left at the time of the death. The
broken bedstead, with its terrible witness to my poor father’s
death-agony, still stood in a corner of the bedroom. Even Lathom’s
painting materials lay huddled in a corner. I suppose he had forgotten
to remove them. A few roughly-daubed canvases in oil contrasted strongly
with my father’s delicate water-colours, of which I found a number put
away in a drawer. Dust had gathered thickly everywhere.
I made a careful search on shelves and in drawers for any notes or
papers that might throw light on my problem, but found nothing except a
few bills and the last letter my father had received from me. There were
one or two novels, a number of local guide-books and botanical books of
reference, and some artist’s catalogues. Delving among these, I at
length came on a large-scale map of the district, with notes upon it in
my father’s handwriting. He had apparently used it as a kind of
botanical chart, marking on it the localities in which various plants
and fungi were to be found. Five-Acre Wood was clearly shown, and upon
it my father had made a small cross accompanied by the note “_Amanita
rubescens_.” I looked for any mention of _Amanita muscaria_, but could
see none; either my father had not found it in the district, or else he
had concerned himself with edible varieties only.
One question, therefore, seemed clearly answered. My father _had_,
without question, been gathering fungi for his supper on the 17th
October, and the place where he had gathered them was a place in which
he was accustomed to find _Amanita rubescens_.
I could find nothing further of any interest at “The Shack,” though I
spent a whole day there. I passed the night at the inn, and next day
departed to Bovey Tracey to check Lathom’s movements.
My first interview was with the taxi-driver. This man’s name is William
Johnson and he lives in the High Street. He perfectly recollects having
driven to Manaton on Thursday, 17th October, and taken Lathom to catch
the 8.13. The circumstance had been strongly impressed upon his mind by
the catastrophe that followed it so closely, and the fact that he had
actually visited “The Shack” and seen the victim, only two days before
the discovery of the body, has naturally made him a kind of local hero.
He is positive that my father and Lathom parted on the best of terms.
They shook hands, and my father said: “Well, hope you have a good
journey. See you back on Saturday. What train do you think you’ll
catch?” Lathom answered that he wasn’t quite sure, and added: “Don’t
wait up for me if I’m late.”
This answers one of our questions, and makes it quite clear that at
least one person besides my father knew that Lathom was expected back on
the Saturday.
My next question was, At what time had Lathom ordered his taxi? The man
remembered this, too. A telephone message was put through to him from
Manaton at about nine o’clock on the Wednesday evening. He can verify
this, if necessary, by his order-book.
This is interesting. It makes it seem likely that Lathom only decided to
make this trip to town at the last moment—in fact, after hearing my
father express his intention of gathering _Amanita rubescens_ the
following day.
Finally, I inquired whether Johnson had actually seen Lathom get into
the train. By a stroke of good fortune he was able to answer this
question definitely. He had to put a parcel on the train for a printer
at Bovey Tracey, and, while doing this, he had seen Lathom take his seat
in a third-class smoker. As the train went out, Lathom leaned out of the
window and shouted something to a porter—some question, he thought,
about changing at Newton Abbot.
I hired this man’s taxi, which was a reasonably good one, and
interviewed the railway staff at the three intermediate stations between
Bovey Tracey and Newton Abbot. Here, as was natural, the men found some
difficulty in remembering the events of three months ago. I could not
find anybody who recollected seeing Lathom. In each place I asked for a
name of anybody in the village who might be likely to have a car or
motor-cycle for hire, and went to see the proprietors of the vehicles,
but without result. Nowhere could I find any record of such a
transaction.
Newton Abbot is a larger place, and I anticipated difficulty. On the
contrary, and greatly to my surprise, I got on to Lathom’s trail almost
immediately. No sooner had I mentioned his name to the station-master
than he said at once:
“Oh, yes, sir—that was the gentleman who lost a pocket-book last
October. Did he ever find it?”
Taking this cue as it presented itself, I replied that he had not, and
that, being in the neighbourhood, I had promised to call and ask about
it.
“Well, sir,” said the station-master, “we made inquiries all down the
line, and had several men out searching, but they never found it. They
would have brought it to me if they had, for they were all decent
fellows and Mr. Lathom offered a reward. I’m afraid some tramp must have
picked it up, sir. There’s a lot of them about these days and they’re
not over-honest.”
“No doubt that was it,” said I. “Let me see—whereabouts did he say he
lost it?”
“Said he thought it must have fallen out of his breast-pocket when he
was leaning out of the window. He couldn’t say exactly where, but he
thought it must be just the other side of Heathfield. Here’s the note I
made in my book, you see, sir, and here’s the gentleman’s name and
address that he wrote down himself.”
I recognised the handwriting in which Lathom had written out Munting’s
address for me.
“Well, it was very tiresome,” I said, “but I am sure you did all you
could. There was money in the pocket-book, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir, and the gentleman’s ticket to town. He was in quite a way
about it, because he said he hadn’t enough money on him to book again.
So I spoke to the ticket-collector, and he said he could make it all
right on the train, and Mr. Lathom could settle it with the Company when
he got to town.”
These inquiries had taken the greater part of the day, so I decided to
stay that night in Newton Abbot and interview the ticket-collector the
next day. He was still on the same train and perfectly recollected the
affair of Lathom and his ticket. I went on up to Paddington with him,
and there the friendly collector directed me to the official in the
Inquiry Bureau who had dealt with the matter on the previous occasion.
After considerable referring back and forth and ringing up the head
office, it was clearly established that Lathom had duly arrived by the
1.15, without his ticket, had explained the circumstances and had left
his name and address, promising to send the ticket on if it turned up.
As a matter of fact, it never had turned up, but as the booking-clerk at
Bovey Tracey had clearly remembered issuing it and had identified Lathom
on his next visit as being the person to whom the ticket had been
issued, the Company had accepted the explanation and allowed the matter
to drop.
This was something of a blow. I had really reckoned more than I realised
on finding that Lathom had left the train at some point and doubled back
to Manaton. There was just one possibility. He might have hurried across
to the down platform and taken the 1.30, which would land him back at
Bovey Tracey at about half-past six. This would have meant very quick
work, for the explanation to the authorities at Paddington must have
taken him nearly ten minutes. And at the other end he would have had to
get, somehow or other, to Manaton and then do the three miles out to
“The Shack,” and then snatch his opportunity to rush in, unseen, and
drop the poison into the stew while my father’s back was turned. It
seemed almost impossible. Apart from everything else, it was
inconceivable that he should not have been seen, either at Newton Abbot
or at Bovey Tracey. He would have had to pass the barrier, and he would
have had to hire a car, for nothing else would have got him down to “The
Shack” before supper-time.
I turned it over and over in my mind and could make nothing of it. It
seemed that I must abandon this whole theory. I returned to my hotel in
a mood of deep depression, and found there, waiting for me, a letter
from Munting, which I append here in its place.