Madeline’s Ordeal
I was rather sorry for Dimsdale. His position was a very disagreeable
one and he fully realized it. His patient had been poisoned before his
very eyes and he had never suspected even grave illness. In a sense,
the death of Harold Monkhouse lay at his door and it was pretty
certain that every one present would hold him accountable for the
disaster. Indeed, it was likely that he would receive less than
justice. Those who judged him would hardly stop to reflect on the
extraordinary difficulties that beset a busy medical man whose patient
is being secretly poisoned; would fail to consider the immense number
of cases of illness presented to him in the course of years of
practice and the infinitely remote probability that any one of them is
a case of poison. The immense majority of doctors pass through the
whole of their professional lives without meeting with such a case;
and it is not surprising that when the infinitely rare contingency
arises, it nearly always takes the practitioner unawares. My own
amazement at this incredible horror tended to make me sympathetic
towards Dimsdale and it was with some relief that I noted the
courteous and considerate manner that the coroner adopted in dealing
with the new witness.
“I think,” the former observed, “that we had better, in the first
place, pursue our inquiries concerning the medicine. You have heard
the evidence of Dr. Randall and Dr. Barnes. This bottle of medicine,
before any was taken from it, contained twelve and a half grains of
arsenious acid, in the form of just over three fluid ounces of
Fowler’s Solution. Can you suggest any explanation of that fact?”
“No,” replied Dimsdale, “I cannot.”
“What should the bottle have contained? What was the composition of
the medicine?”
“The medicine was just a simple, very mild tonic and alternative. The
bottle contained twenty-four minims of Tincture of Nux Vomica, sixteen
minims of Liquor Arsenicalis, half a fluid ounce of Syrup of Bitter
Orange to cover the taste of the Nux Vomica and half an ounce of
Compound Tincture of Cardamoms. So that each dose contained three
minims of Tincture of Nux Vomica and two minims of Liquor
Arsenicalis.”
“Liquor Arsenicalis is another name for Fowler’s Solution I
understand?”
“Yes, it is the official name; the other is the popular name.”
“Who supplied this medicine?”
“It was supplied by me.”
“Do you usually supply your patients with medicine?”
“No. Only a few of my old patients who prefer to have their medicine
from me. Usually, I write prescriptions which my patients have made up
by chemists.”
“This bottle, then, was made up in your own dispensary?”
“Yes.”
“Now, I put it to you, Dr. Dimsdale: this medicine did actually
contain Fowler’s Solution, according to the prescription. Is it not
possible that some mistake may have occurred in the amount put into
the bottle?”
“No, it is quite impossible.”
“Why is it impossible?”
“Because I made up this particular bottle myself. As my dispenser is
not a qualified pharmacist, I always dispense, with my own hands, any
medicines containing poisons. All dangerous drugs are kept in a poison
cupboard under lock and key, and I carry the key on my private bunch.
This is the key, and as you see, the lock is a Yale lock.”
He held up the bunch with the little flat key separated, for the
coroner’s and the jurymen’s inspection.
“But,” said the coroner, “you have not made it clear that a mistake in
the quantity was impossible.”
“I was coming to that,” replied Dimsdale. “The poisons in the cupboard
are, of course, powerful drugs which are given only in small doses,
and a special measure-glass is kept in the cupboard to measure them.
This glass holds only two drachms—a hundred and twenty minims, that
is, a quarter of an ounce. Now, the analysts found in this bottle
three fluid ounces of Fowler’s Solution. But to measure out that
quantity, I should have had to fill the measure-glass twelve times!
That is impossible. No one could do such a thing as that
inadvertently, especially when he was dispensing poisons.
“But that is not all. The poison bottles are all quite small. The one
in which the Liquor Arsenicalis is kept is a four ounce bottle. It
happened that I had refilled it a few days previously and it was full
when I dispensed this medicine. Now, obviously, if I had put three
ounces of the Liquor into the medicine bottle, there would have
remained in the dispensing bottle only one ounce. But the dispensing
bottle is still practically full. I had occasion to use it this
morning and I found it full save for the few minims that had been
taken to make up the deceased’s medicine.
“And there is another point. This medicine was coloured a deepish pink
by the Tincture of Cardamoms. But if it had contained three ounces of
Fowler’s Solution in addition, it would have been a deep red of quite
a different character. But I clearly remember the appearance of the
bottle as it lay on the white paper when I was wrapping it up. It had
the delicate pink colour that is imparted by the cochineal in the
Tincture of Cardamoms.”
The coroner nodded as he wrote down the reply, and enquired:
“Would any of you, gentlemen, like to ask any questions concerning the
bottle of medicine?”
“We should like to know, Sir,” said the foreman, “whether this bottle
of medicine ever left the doctor’s hands before it was sent to
deceased?”
“No, it did not,” replied Dimsdale. “As the dispenser was absent, I
put up the bottle entirely myself. I put in the cork, wrote the label,
tied on the paper cap, wrapped the bottle up, sealed the wrapping,
addressed it and gave it to the boy to deliver.”
The foreman expressed himself as fully satisfied with this answer and
the coroner then resumed:
“Well, we seem to have disposed of the medicine so far as you are
concerned, Doctor. We will now go on to consider the condition of
deceased during the last few days. Did no suspicion of anything
abnormal ever occur to you?”
“No, I neither perceived nor suspected anything abnormal.”
“Is that not rather remarkable? I realize that poisoning would be the
last thing that you would be looking for or expecting. But when it
occurred, is it not a little strange that you did not recognize the
symptoms?”
“Not at all,” replied Dimsdale. “There was nothing to recognize. The
classical symptoms of arsenic poisoning were entirely absent. You will
remember that Sir Robert Detling had no more suspicion than I had.”
“What are the classical symptoms, as you call them, of arsenic
poisoning?”
“The recognized symptoms—which are present in the immense majority of
cases—are acute abdominal pain and tenderness, intense thirst, nausea,
vomiting and purging; the symptoms, in fact, of extreme irritation of
the stomach and intestines. But in the case of deceased, these
symptoms were entirely absent. There was, in my opinion, nothing
whatever in his appearance or symptoms to suggest arsenic poisoning.
His condition appeared in no way different from what I had known it to
be on several previous occasions; just a variation for the worse of
his ordinary ill-health.”
“You do not doubt that arsenic poisoning was really the cause of his
death?”
“The analysis seems to put the matter beyond question; otherwise—I
mean apart from the analysis—I would not have entertained the idea of
arsenic poisoning for a moment.”
“But you do not dispute the cause of death?”
“No. Arsenic is extraordinarily variable in its effects, as Dr.
Randall mentioned, both on the dead body and on the living. Very
anomalous cases of arsenic poisoning have been mistaken, during life,
for opium poisoning.”
The coroner wrote down the answer and having glanced over his notes,
asked:
“What was the condition of deceased when his wife went away from
home?”
“He was much better. In fact his health seemed to be improving so much
that I hoped he would soon be about again.”
“And how soon after his wife’s departure did his last attack begin?”
“I should hardly call it an attack. It was a gradual change for the
worse. Mrs. Monkhouse went away on the 29th of August. On the 2nd of
September deceased was not so well and was extremely depressed and
disappointed at the relapse. From that time his condition fluctuated,
sometimes a little better and sometimes not so well. On the 8th he
appeared rather seriously ill and was no better on the 9th, the day of
the consultation with Sir Robert Detling. After that he seemed to
improve a little, and the slight improvement was maintained up to the
12th. His death came, at least to me, as quite a surprise.”
“You spoke just now of several previous occasions on which attacks—or,
if you prefer it, relapses—of a similar kind occurred. Looking back on
those relapses by the light of what we now know, do you say that they
were quite similar, in respect of the symptoms, to the one which ended
in the death of deceased?”
“I should say they were identically similar. At any rate, I can recall
no difference.”
“Did any of them seem to be as severe as the fatal one?”
“Yes; in fact the last of them—which occurred in June—seemed to be
more severe, only that it was followed by improvement and recovery. I
have here the section of my card-index which relates to deceased. In
the entry dated June 19 you will see that I have noted the patient’s
unsatisfactory condition.”
He handed a small pack of index-cards to the coroner, who examined the
upper card intently and then, with a sudden raising of the eyebrows,
addressed the jury.
“I had better read out the entry. The card is headed ‘Harold
Monkhouse’ and this entry reads: ‘June 19. Patient very low and
feeble. No appetite. Considerable gastric discomfort and troublesome
cough. Pulse 90, small, thready. Heart sounds weak. Sending report to
Mrs. Monkhouse.’”
He laid the cards down on the table, and, looking fixedly at Dimsdale,
repeated: “‘Sending report to Mrs. Monkhouse!’ Where was Mrs.
Monkhouse?”
“Somewhere in Kent, I believe. I sent the report to the head-quarters
of the Women’s Freedom League in Knightrider Street, Maidstone, from
whence I supposed it would be forwarded to her.”
For some seconds after receiving this answer the coroner continued to
gaze steadily at the witness. At length he observed:
“This is a remarkable coincidence. Can you recall the condition of
deceased when Mrs. Monkhouse went away on that occasion?”
“Yes. I remember that he was in comparatively good health. In fact,
his improved condition furnished the opportunity for Mrs. Monkhouse to
make her visit to Maidstone.”
“Can you tell us how soon after her departure on that occasion the
relapse occurred?”
“I cannot say definitely, but my impression is that the change for the
worse began a few days after she went away. Perhaps I might be able to
judge by looking at my notes.”
The coroner handed him back the index-cards, which he looked through
rapidly. “Yes,” he said, at length, “here is an entry on June 11 of a
bottle of tonic medicine for Mrs. Monkhouse. So she must have been at
home on that date; and as it was a double-sized bottle, it was
probably for her to take away with her.”
“Then,” said the coroner, “it is clear that, on the last two
occasions, the deceased was comparatively well when his wife left
home, but had a serious relapse soon after she went away. Now, what of
the previous relapses?”
“I am afraid I cannot remember. I have an impression that Mrs.
Monkhouse was away from home when some of them occurred, but at this
distance of time, I cannot recollect clearly. Possibly Mrs. Monkhouse,
herself, may be able to remember.”
“Possibly,” the coroner agreed, rather drily, “but as the point is of
considerable importance, I should be glad if you would presently look
through your case-cards and see if you can glean any definite
information on the subject. Meanwhile we may pass on to one or two
other matters. First as to the medicine which you prescribed for
deceased; it contained, as you have told us, a certain amount of
Fowler’s Solution, and you considered deceased to be suffering from
chronic gastritis. Is Fowler’s Solution usually given in cases of
gastritis?”
“No. It is usually considered rather unsuitable. But deceased was very
tolerant of small doses of arsenic. I had often given it to him before
as a tonic and it had always seemed to agree with him. The dose was
extremely small—only two minims.”
“How long have you known deceased?”
“I have known, and attended him professionally about twenty years.”
“From your knowledge of him, should you say that he was a man who was
likely to make enemies?”
“Not at all. He was a kindly, just and generous man, amiable and
even-tempered; rather reserved and aloof; not very human, perhaps, and
somewhat self-contained and solitary. But I could not imagine him
making an enemy and, so far as I know, he never did.”
The coroner reflected awhile after writing down this answer and then
turned to the jury.
“Are there any questions that you wish to put to the witness,
gentlemen?”
The jury consulted together for a few moments, and the foreman then
replied:
“We should like to know, Sir, if possible, whether Mrs. Monkhouse was
or was not away from home when the previous relapses occurred.”
“I am afraid,” said Dimsdale, “that I cannot be more explicit as the
events occurred so long ago. The other witnesses—the members of the
household—would be much more likely to remember. And I would urge you
not to detain me from my professional duties longer than is absolutely
necessary.”
Hereupon a brief consultation took place between the coroner and the
jury, with the result that Dimsdale was allowed to go about his
business and Barbara was summoned to take his place. I had awaited
this stage of the proceedings with some uneasiness and was now rather
surprised and greatly relieved at the coroner’s manner towards her;
which was courteous and even sympathetic. Having expressed his and the
jury’s regret at having to trouble her in the very distressing
circumstances, he proceeded at once to clear off the preliminaries,
eliciting the facts that she was 32 years of age and had been married
a little over three years, and then said:
“Dr. Dimsdale has told us that on the occasion of the attack or
relapse in June last you were away from home, but he is not certain
about the previous ones. Can you give us any information on the
subject?”
“Yes,” she replied, in a quiet, steady voice, “I recall quite clearly
at least three previous occasions on which I went away from home
leaving my husband apparently well—as well as he ever was—and came
back to find him quite ill. But I think there were more than three
occasions on which this happened, for I remember having once accused
him, facetiously, of saving up his illnesses until I was out of the
house.”
“Can you remember if a serious relapse ever occurred when you were at
home?”
“Not a really serious one. My husband’s health was always very
unstable and he often had to rest in bed for a day or two. But the
really bad attacks of illness seem always to have occurred when I was
away from home.”
“Did it never strike you that this was a very remarkable fact?”
“I am afraid I did not give the matter as much consideration as I
ought to have done. Deceased was always ailing, more or less, and
those about him came to accept his ill-health as his normal
condition.”
“But you see the significance of it now?”
Barbara hesitated and then replied in a low voice and with evident
agitation:
“I see that it may have some significance, but I don’t in the least
understand it. I am quite overwhelmed and bewildered by the dreadful
thing that has happened.”
“Naturally, you are,” the coroner said in a sympathetic tone, “and I
am most reluctant to trouble you with questions under circumstances
that must be so terrible to you. But we must find out the truth if we
can.”
“Yes, I realize that,” she replied, “and thank you for your
consideration.”
The coroner bowed, and after a brief pause, asked: “Did it never occur
to you to engage a nurse to attend to deceased?”
“Yes. I suggested it more than once to deceased, but he wouldn’t hear
of it. And I think he was right. There was nothing that a nurse could
have done for him. He was not helpless and he was not continuously
bed-ridden. He had a bell-push by his bedside and his secretary or the
servants were always ready to do anything that he wanted done. The
housemaid was most attentive to him. But he did not want much
attention. He kept the books that he was reading on his bedside table
and he liked to be left alone to read in peace. He felt that the
presence of a nurse would have been disturbing.”
“And at night?”
“At night his bell-push was connected with a bell in the secretary’s
bedroom. But he hardly ever used it. If his candle-lamp burned out he
could put in a fresh candle from the box on his table; and he never
seemed to want anything else.”
“Besides deceased and yourself, who were the inmates of the house?”
“There was my husband’s secretary, Mr. Wallingford, Miss Norris, the
cook, Anne Baker, the housemaid, Mabel Withers, and the kitchenmaid,
Doris Brown.”
“Why did deceased need a secretary? Did he transact much business?”
“No. The secretary wrote his few business letters, kept the accounts
and executed any commissions, besides doing the various things that
the master of the house would ordinarily have done. He is the son of
an old friend of my husband’s and he came to us when his father died.”
“And Miss Norris? What was her position in the household?”
“She lived with us as a guest at my husband’s invitation. She was the
daughter of his first wife’s sister, and he, more or less informally,
adopted her as he had no children of his own.”
“Deceased was a widower, then, when you married him?”
“Yes. His wife had been dead about two years.”
“What was his age when he died?”
“He had just turned fifty-seven.”
“On what sort of terms was deceased with the members of his
household?”
“On the best of terms with them all. He was an undemonstrative man and
rather cool and reserved with strangers and distinctly solitary and
self-contained. But he was a kind and generous man and all the
household, including the servants, were devoted to him.”
“Was deceased engaged in any business or profession?”
“No, he had independent means, inherited from his father.”
“Would you describe him as a wealthy man?”
“I believe he was quite well off, but he never spoke of his financial
affairs to me, or to anybody but his lawyers.”
“Do you know how his property is disposed of?”
“I know that he made a will, but I never enquired about the terms of
it and he never told me.”
“But surely you were an interested party.”
“It was understood that some provision would be made for me if I
survived him. That was all that concerned me. Deceased was not a man
with whom it was necessary to make conditions; and I have some small
property of my own. Mr. Mayfield, who is present, of course, knows
what the provisions of the will are as he is one of the executors.”
Once more the coroner paused to look over his notes. Then he glanced
inquiringly at the jury, and, when the foreman shook his head, he
thanked Barbara and dismissed her; and as she walked back to her
chair, pale and grave but perfectly composed, I found myself admiring
her calm dignity and only hoping that the other witnesses would make
as good a figure. But this hope was no sooner conceived than it was
shattered. The next name that was called was Madeline Norris and for a
few moments there was no response. At length Madeline rose slowly,
ashen and ghastly of face, and walked unsteadily to the table. Her
appearance—her deathly pallor and her trembling hands—struck me with
dismay; and what increased my concern for the unfortunate girl was the
subtle change in manner that I detected in the jury and the coroner.
The poor girl’s manifest agitation might surely have bespoken their
sympathy; but not a sign of sympathy was discernible in their
faces—nothing but a stony curiosity.
Having been sworn—on a testament which shook visibly in her grasp—she
deposed that her name was Madeline Norris and her age twenty-seven.
“Any occupation?” the coroner enquired drily without looking up.
“I am a teacher at the Westminster College of Domestic Science.”
“Teacher of what?”
“Principally of cookery and kitchen management, especially invalid
cookery.”
“Are you, yourself, a skilled cook?”
“Yes. It is my duty to demonstrate to the class.”
“Have you ever cooked or prepared food for the deceased?”
“Yes. I usually cooked his meals when I was in the house at meal
times.”
“It has been stated that you prepared the last meal that deceased
took. Is that correct?”
“Yes. I cooked an omelette for his supper.”
“Will you describe to us the way in which you prepared that omelette?”
Madeline considered for a few moments and then replied in a low, shaky
voice: “It was just a simple omelette. I first rubbed the pan with a
cut clove of garlic and put in the butter to heat. Then I broke an egg
into a cup, separated the yolk from the white, and, having beaten them
up separately, mixed them and added a very small portion of pounded
anchovy, a pinch or two of finely chopped parsley and a little salt. I
cooked it in the usual way and turned it out on a hot plate which I
covered at once.”
“Who took it up to deceased?”
“I did. I ran straight up with it and sat and talked to deceased while
he ate it.”
“Did you meet any one on your way up or in the bedroom?”
“No. There was nobody on the stairs, and the deceased was alone.”
“Did deceased take anything to drink with his supper?”
“Yes. He had a glass of chablis. I fetched the bottle and the glass
from the dining room and poured out the wine for him.”
“Did you meet anybody in the dining room or coming or going?”
“No, I met nobody.”
“Can you think of any way in which any poison could have got into the
omelette or into the wine?”
“No. Nothing could possibly have got into the omelette. As to the
wine, I poured it from the bottle into a clean glass. But the bottle
was already open and had been in the cellaret since lunch.”
“Now, with regard to the medicine. Did you give deceased any on the
day before his death?”
“Yes. I gave him a dose soon after I came in—about six o’clock. That
was the last dose in the bottle.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about the medicine?”
“No. It was similar to what he had been taking for some days past.”
“What was the medicine like?”
“It was nearly colourless with the faintest tinge of red and smelled
slightly of lavender and bitter orange.”
“Was there anything that caused you to notice particularly, on this
occasion, the appearance and smell of the medicine?”
“No. I noticed the colour and the smell when I opened the bottle on
the previous morning to give deceased a dose.”
“Did you examine the new bottle which had just been sent?”
“Yes. I looked at it and took out the cork and smelled it and tasted
it.”
“What made you do that?”
“I noticed that it seemed to contain Tincture of Cardamoms and I
smelled and tasted it to find out if the other ingredients had been
changed.”
“And what conclusion did you arrive at?”
“That they had not been changed. I could taste the Nux Vomica and
smell the orange and the Liquor Arsenicalis—at least the lavender.”
“Did you realize what the lavender smell was due to?”
“Yes. I recognized it as the smell of Liquor Arsenicalis. I knew that
deceased was taking Liquor Arsenicalis because I had asked Dr.
Dimsdale about it when I first noticed the smell.”
The coroner wrote down this answer and then, raising his head, looked
steadily at Madeline for some seconds without speaking; and the jury
looked harder still. At length the former spoke, slowly, deliberately,
emphatically.
“You have told us that you examined this medicine to find out what it
contained, and that you were able to recognize Tincture of Cardamoms
by its colour and Liquor Arsenicalis by its smell. It would seem,
then, that you know a good deal about drugs. Is that so?”
“I know something about drugs. My father was a doctor and he taught me
simple dispensing so that I could help him.”
The coroner nodded. “Was there any reason why you should have taken so
much interest in the composition of deceased’s medicine?”
Madeline did not answer immediately. And as she stood trembling and
hesitating in evident confusion, the coroner gazed at her stonily, and
the jury craned forward to catch her reply.
“I used to examine his medicine,” she replied at length, in a low
voice and a reluctant and confused manner, “because I knew that it
often contained Liquor Arsenicalis and I used to wonder whether that
was good for him. I understood from my father that it was a rather
irritating drug, and it did not seem very suitable for a patient who
suffered from gastritis.”
There was a pause after she had spoken and something in the appearance
of the inquisitors almost as if they had been a little disappointed by
this eminently reasonable answer. At length the coroner broke the
silence by asking, with a slight softening of manner:
“You have said that the change in colour of the last medicine led you
to taste and smell it to ascertain if the other ingredients had been
changed. You have said that you decided that they had not been
changed. Are you sure of that? Can you swear that the smell of
lavender was not stronger in this bottle than in the previous ones?”
“It did not seem to me to be stronger.”
“Supposing the bottle had then contained as much Liquor Arsenicalis as
was found in it by the analysts, would you have been able to detect it
by the smell or otherwise?”
“Yes, I feel sure that I should. The analysts found three ounces of
Liquor Arsenicalis; that would be nearly half the bottle. I am sure I
should have detected that amount, not only by the strong smell but by
the colour, too.”
“You are sure that the colour of this medicine was due to Cardamoms
only?”
“Yes, that is to cochineal. I recognized it at once. It is perfectly
unmistakable and quite different from the colour of Red Sandalwood,
with which Liquor Arsenicalis is coloured. Besides, this medicine was
only a deepish pink in colour. But if three ounces of Liquor
Arsenicalis had been in the bottle, the medicine would have been quite
a dark red.”
“You have had some experience in dispensing. Do you consider it
possible that the Liquor Arsenicalis could have been put into the
medicine by mistake when it was being made up?”
“It would be quite impossible if a minim measure-glass was used, as
the glass would have had to be filled twelve times. But this is never
done. One does not measure large quantities in small measures. Three
ounces would be measured out in a four or five ounce measure, as a
rule, or, possibly in a two ounce measure, by half refilling it.”
“Might not the wrong measure-glass have been taken up by mistake?”
“That is, of course, just possible. But it is most unlikely; for the
great disproportion between the large measure-glass and the little
stock-bottle would be so striking that it could hardly fail to be
noticed.”
“Then, from your own observation and from Dr. Dimsdale’s evidence, you
reject the idea that a mistake may have been made in dispensing this
bottle of medicine?”
“Yes, entirely. I have heard Dr. Dimsdale’s evidence and I examined
the medicine. I am convinced that he could not have made a mistake
under the circumstances that he described and I am certain that the
medicine that I saw did not contain more than a small quantity—less
than a drachm—of Liquor Arsenicalis.”
“You are not forgetting that the analysts actually found the
equivalent of three ounces of Liquor Arsenicalis in the bottle?”
“No. But I am sure it was not there when I examined the bottle.”
The coroner wrote down this answer with a deliberate air, and, when he
had finished, turned to the jury.
“I think we have nothing more to ask this witness, unless there is any
point that you want made more clear.”
There was a brief silence. Then the super-intelligent juryman
interposed.
“I should like to know if this witness ever had any Liquor Arsenicalis
in her possession.”
The coroner held up a warning hand to Madeline, and replied:
“That question, Sir, is not admissible. It is a principle of English
law that a witness cannot be compelled to make a statement
incriminating him—or herself. But an affirmative answer to this
question would be an incriminating statement.”
“But I am perfectly willing to answer the question,” Madeline said
eagerly. “I have never had in my possession any Liquor Arsenicalis or
any other preparation of arsenic.”
“That answers your question, Sir,” said the coroner, as he wrote down
the answer, “and if you have nothing more to ask, we can release the
witness.”
He handed his pen to Madeline, and when she had signed her
depositions—a terribly shaky signature it must have been—she came back
to her chair, still very pale and agitated, but obviously relieved at
having got through the ordeal. I had taken her arm as she sat down and
was complimenting her on the really admirable way in which she had
given her evidence, when I heard the name of Anthony Wallingford
called and realized that another unpleasant episode had arrived.