The Verdict
I had not been taking much notice of Wallingford, my attention being
occupied with the two women when it strayed from the proceedings.
Beyond an irritated consciousness of his usual restless movements, I
had no information as to how the soul-shaking incidents of this
appalling day were affecting him. But when he rose drunkenly and,
grasping the back of his chair, rolled his eyes wildly round the
Court, I realized that there were breakers ahead.
When I say that he rose drunkenly, I use the word advisedly. Familiar
as I was with his peculiarities—his jerkings, twitchings and
grimacings—I saw, at once, that there was something unusual both in
his face and in his bearing; a dull wildness of expression and an
uncertainty of movement that I had never observed before. He had not
come to the Court with the rest of us, preferring, for some reason, to
come alone. And I now suspected that he had taken the opportunity to
fortify himself on the way.
I was not the only observer of his condition. As he walked, with
deliberate care, from his seat to the table, I noticed the coroner
eyeing him critically and the jury exchanging dubious glances and
whispered comments. He made a bad start by dropping the book on the
floor and sniggering nervously as he stooped to pick it up; and I
could see plainly, by the stiffness of the coroner’s manner that he
had made an unfavourable impression before he began his evidence.
“You were secretary to the deceased?” said the coroner, when the
witness had stated his name, age (33) and occupation. “What was the
nature of your duties?”
“The ordinary duties of a secretary,” was the dogged reply.
“Will you kindly give us particulars of what you did for deceased?”
“I opened his business letters and answered them and some of his
private ones. And I kept his accounts and paid his bills.”
“What accounts would those be? Deceased was not in business, I
understand?”
“No, they were his domestic accounts; his income from investments and
rents and his expenditure.”
“Did you attend upon deceased personally; I mean in the way of looking
after his bodily comfort and supplying his needs?”
“I used to look in on him from time to time to see if he wanted
anything done. But it wasn’t my business to wait on him. I was his
secretary, not his valet.”
“Who did wait on him, and attend to his wants?”
“The housemaid, chiefly, and Miss Norris, and of course, Mrs.
Monkhouse. But he didn’t usually want much but his food, his medicine,
a few books from the library and a supply of candles for his lamp. His
bell-push was connected with a bell in my room at night, but he never
rang it.”
“Then, practically, the housemaid did everything for him?”
“Not everything. Miss Norris cooked most of his meals, we all used to
give him his medicine, I used to put out his books and keep his
fountain pen filled, and Mrs. Monkhouse kept his candle-box supplied.
That was what he was most particular about as he slept badly and used
to read at night.”
“You give us the impression, Mr. Wallingford,” the coroner said,
dryly, “that you must have had a good deal of leisure.”
“Then I have given you the wrong impression. I was kept constantly on
the go, doing jobs, paying tradesmen, shopping and running errands.”
“For whom?”
“Everybody. Deceased, Mrs. Monkhouse, Miss Norris and even Dr.
Dimsdale. I was everybody’s servant.”
“What did you do for Mrs. Monkhouse?”
“I don’t see what that has got to do with this inquest?”
“That is not for you to decide,” the coroner said, sternly. “You will
be good enough to answer my question.”
Wallingford winced as if he had had his ears cuffed. In a moment, his
insolence evaporated and I could see his hands shaking as he,
evidently, cudgelled his brains for a reply. Suddenly he seemed to
have struck an idea.
“Shopping of various kinds,” said he; “for instance, there were the
candles for deceased. His lamp was of German make and English
lamp-candles wouldn’t fit it. So I used to have to go to a German shop
at Sparrow Corner by the Tower, to get packets of Schneider’s stearine
candles. That took about half a day.”
The coroner, stolidly and without comment, wrote down the answer, but
my experience as a counsel told me that it had been a dummy question,
asked to distract the witness’s attention and cover a more significant
one that was to follow. For that question I waited expectantly, and
when it came my surmise was confirmed.
“And Dr. Dimsdale? What did you have to do for him?”
“I used to help him with his books sometimes when he hadn’t got a
dispenser. I am a pretty good accountant and he isn’t.”
“Where does Dr. Dimsdale do his bookkeeping?”
“At the desk in the surgery.”
“And is that where you used to work?”
“Yes.”
“Used Dr. Dimsdale to work with you or did you do the books by
yourself?”
“I usually worked by myself.”
“At what time in the day used you to work there?”
“In the afternoon, as a rule.”
“At what hours does Dr. Dimsdale visit his patients?”
“Most of the day. He goes out about ten and finishes about six or
seven.”
“So that you would usually be alone in the surgery?”
“Yes, usually.”
As the coroner wrote down the answer I noticed the super-intelligent
juryman fidgeting in his seat. At length he burst out:
“Is the poison cupboard in the surgery?”
The coroner looked interrogatively at Wallingford, who stared at him
blankly in sudden confusion.
“You heard the question? Is the poison cupboard there?”
“I don’t know. It may be. It wasn’t any business of mine.”
“Is there any cupboard in the surgery? You must know that.”
“Yes, there is a cupboard there, but I don’t know what is in it.”
“Did you never see it open?”
“No. Never.”
“And you never had the curiosity to look into it?”
“Of course I didn’t. Besides I couldn’t. It was locked.”
“Was it always locked when you were there?”
“Yes, always.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Yes, perfectly certain.”
Here the super-intelligent juror looked as if he were about to spring
across the table as he demanded eagerly:
“How does the witness know that that cupboard was locked?”
The coroner looked slightly annoyed. He had been playing his fish
carefully and was in no wise helped by this rude jerk of the line.
Nevertheless, he laid down his pen and looked expectantly at the
witness. As for Wallingford, he was struck speechless. Apparently his
rather muddled brain had suddenly taken in the import of the question,
for he stood with dropped jaw and damp, pallid face, staring at the
juryman in utter consternation.
“Well,” said the coroner, after an interval, “how did you know that it
was locked?”
Wallingford pulled himself together by an effort and replied:
“Why, I knew—I knew, of course, that it must be locked.”
“Yes; but the question is, how did you know?”
“Why it stands to reason that it must have been locked.”
“Why does it stand to reason? Cupboards are not always locked.”
“Poison cupboards are. Besides, you heard Dimsdale say that he always
kept this cupboard locked. He showed you the key.”
Once more the coroner, having noted the answer, laid down his pen and
looked steadily at the witness.
“Now, Mr. Wallingford,” said he, “I must caution you to be careful as
to what you say. This is a serious matter, and you are giving evidence
on oath. You said just now that you did not know whether the poison
cupboard was or was not in the surgery. You said that you did not know
what was in that cupboard. Now you say that you knew the cupboard must
have been locked because it was the poison cupboard. Then it seems
that you _did_ know that it was the poison cupboard. Isn’t that so?”
“No. I didn’t know then. I do now because I heard Dimsdale say that it
was.”
“Then, you said that you were perfectly certain that the cupboard was
always locked whenever you were working there. That meant that you
knew positively, as a fact, that it _was_ locked. Now you say that you
knew that it must be locked. But that is an assumption, an opinion, a
belief. Now, a man of your education must know the difference between
a mere belief and actual knowledge. Will you, please, answer
definitely: Did you, or did you not, know as a fact whether that
cupboard was or was not locked?”
“Well, I didn’t actually know, but I took it for granted that it was
locked.”
“You did not try the door?”
“Certainly not. Why should I?”
“Very well. Does any gentleman of the jury wish to ask any further
questions about this cupboard?”
There was a brief silence. Then the foreman said:
“We should like the witness to say what he means and not keep
contradicting himself.”
“You hear that, Sir,” said the coroner. “Please be more careful in
your answers in future. Now, I want to ask you about that last bottle
of medicine. Did you notice anything unusual in its appearance?”
“No. I didn’t notice it at all. I didn’t know that it had come.”
“Did you go into deceased’s room on that day—the Wednesday?”
“Yes, I went to see deceased in the morning about ten o’clock and gave
him a dose of his medicine; and I looked in on him in the evening
about nine o’clock to see if he wanted anything, but he didn’t.”
“Did you give him any medicine then?”
“No. It was not due for another hour.”
“What was his condition then?”
“He looked about the same as usual. He seemed inclined to doze, so I
did not stay long.”
“Is that the last time you saw him alive?”
“No. I looked in again just before eleven. He was then in much the
same state—rather drowsy—and, at his request, I turned out the gas and
left him.”
“Did you light the candle?”
“No, he always did that himself, if he wanted it.”
“Did you give him any medicine?”
“No. He had just had a dose.”
“Did he tell you that he had?”
“No. I could see that there was a dose gone.”
“From which bottle was that?”
“There was only one bottle there. It must have been the new bottle, as
only one dose had been taken.”
“What colour was the medicine?”
Wallingford hesitated a moment or two as if suspecting a trap. Then he
replied, doggedly: “I don’t know. I told you I didn’t notice it.”
“You said that you didn’t notice it at all and didn’t know that it had
come. Now you say that you observed that only one dose had been taken
from it and that you inferred that it was the new bottle. Which of
those statements is the true one?”
“They are both true,” Wallingford protested in a whining tone. “I
meant that I didn’t notice the medicine particularly and that I didn’t
know when it came.”
“That is not what you said,” the coroner rejoined. “However, we will
let that pass. Is there anything more that you wish to ask this
witness, gentlemen? If not, we will release him and take the evidence
of Mr. Mayfield.”
I think the jury would have liked to bait Wallingford but apparently
could not think of any suitable questions. But they watched him
malevolently as he added his—probably quite illegible—signature to his
depositions and followed him with their eyes as he tottered shakily
back to his seat. Immediately afterwards my name was called and I took
my place at the table, not without a slight degree of nervousness;
for, though I was well enough used to examinations, it was in the
capacity of examiner, not of witness, and I was fully alive to the
possibility of certain pitfalls which the coroner might, if he were
wide enough awake, dig for me. However, when I had been sworn and had
given my particulars (Rupert Mayfield, 35, Barrister-at-Law, of No. 64
Fig Tree Court, Inner Temple) the coroner’s conciliatory manner led me
to hope that it would be all plain sailing.
“How long have you known deceased?” was the first question.
“About two and a half years,” I replied.
“You are one of the executors of his will, Mrs. Monkhouse has told
us.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why you were appointed executor after so short an
acquaintance?”
“I am an old friend of Mrs. Monkhouse. I have known her since she was
a little girl. I was a friend of her father—or rather, her
step-father.”
“Was it by her wish that you were made executor?”
“I believe that the suggestion came from the deceased’s family
solicitor, Mr. Brodribb, who is my co-executor. But probably he was
influenced by my long acquaintance with Mrs. Monkhouse.”
“Has probate been applied for?”
“Yes.”
“Then there can be no objections to your disclosing the provisions of
the will. We don’t want to hear them in detail, but I will ask you to
give us a general idea of the disposal of deceased’s property.”
“The gross value of the estate is about fifty-five thousand pounds, of
which twelve thousand represents real property and forty-three
thousand personal. The principal beneficiaries are: Mrs. Monkhouse,
who receives a house valued at four thousand pounds and twenty
thousand pounds in money and securities; the Reverend Amos Monkhouse,
land of the value of five thousand and ten thousand invested money;
Madeline Norris, a house and land valued at three thousand and five
thousand in securities; Anthony Wallingford, four thousand pounds.
Then there are legacies of a thousand pounds each to the two
executors, and of three hundred, two hundred and one hundred
respectively to the housemaid, the cook and the kitchen maid. That
accounts for the bulk of the estate. Mrs. Monkhouse is the residuary
legatee.”
The coroner wrote down the answer as I gave it and then read it out
slowly for me to confirm, working out, at the same time, a little sum
on a spare piece of paper—as did also the intellectual juryman.
“I think that gives us all the information we want,” the former
remarked, glancing at the jury; and as none of them made any comment,
he proceeded:
“Did you see much of deceased during the last few months?”
“I saw him usually once or twice a week. Sometimes oftener. But I did
not spend much time with him. He was a solitary, bookish man who
preferred to be alone most of his time.”
“Did you take particular notice of his state of health?”
“No, but I did observe that his health seemed to grow rather worse
lately.”
“Did it appear to you that he received such care and attention as a
man in his condition ought to have received?”
“It did not appear to me that he was neglected.”
“Did you realize how seriously ill he was?”
“No, I am afraid not. I regarded him merely as a chronic invalid.”
“It never occurred to you that he ought to have had a regular nurse?”
“No, and I do not think he would have consented. He greatly disliked
having any one about his room.”
“Is there anything within your knowledge that would throw any light on
the circumstances of his death?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Have you ever known arsenic in any form to be used in that household
for any purpose; any fly-papers, weed-killer or insecticides, for
instance?”
“No, I do not remember ever having seen anything used in that
household which, to my knowledge or belief, contained arsenic.”
“Do you know of any fact or circumstance which, in your opinion, ought
to be communicated to this Court or which might help the jury in
arriving at their verdict?”
“No, I do not.”
This brought my examination to an end. I was succeeded by the cook and
the kitchen-maid, but, as they had little to tell, and that little
entirely negative, their examination was quite brief. When the last
witness was dismissed, the coroner addressed the jury.
“We have now, gentlemen,” said he, “heard all the evidence that is at
present available, and we have the choice of two courses; which are,
either to adjourn the inquiry until further evidence is available, or
to find a verdict on the evidence which we have heard. I incline
strongly to the latter plan. We are now in a position to answer the
questions, how, when and where the deceased came by his death, and
when we have done that, we shall have discharged our proper function.
What is your feeling on the matter, gentlemen?”
The jury’s feeling was very obviously that they wished to get the
inquiry over and go about their business, and when they had made this
clear, the coroner proceeded to sum up.
“I shall not detain you, gentlemen, with a long address. All that is
necessary is for me to recapitulate the evidence very briefly and
point out the bearing of it.
“First as to the cause of death. It has been given in evidence by two
fully qualified and expert witnesses that deceased died from the
effects of poisoning by arsenic. That is a matter of fact which is not
disputed and which you must accept, unless you have any reasons for
rejecting their testimony, which I feel sure you have not. Accepting
the fact of death by poison, the question then arises as to how the
poison came to be taken by deceased. There are three possibilities: he
may have taken it himself, voluntarily and knowingly; he may have
taken it by accident or mischance; or it may have been administered to
him knowingly and maliciously by some other person or persons. Let us
consider those three possibilities.
“The suggestion that deceased might have taken the poison voluntarily
is highly improbable in three respects. First, since deceased was
mostly bed-ridden, it would have been almost impossible for him to
have obtained the poison. Second, there is the nature of the poison.
Arsenic has often been used for homicidal poisoning but seldom for
suicide; for an excellent reason. The properties of arsenic which
commend it to poisoners—its complete freedom from taste and the
indefinite symptoms that it produces—do not commend it to the suicide.
He has no need to conceal either the administration or its results.
His principal need is rapidity of effect. But arsenic is a relatively
slow poison and one which usually causes great suffering. It is not at
all suited to the suicide. Then there is the third objection that the
mode of administration was quite unlike that of a suicide. For the
latter usually takes his poison in one large dose, to get the business
over; but here it was evidently given in repeated small doses over a
period that may have been anything from a week to a year. And,
finally, there is not a particle of evidence in favour of the
supposition that deceased took the poison himself.
“To take the second case, that of accident: the only possibility known
to us is that of a mistake in dispensing the medicine. But the
evidence of Dr. Dimsdale and Miss Norris must have convinced you that
the improbability of a mistake is so great as to be practically
negligible. Of course, the poison might have found its way
accidentally into the medicine or the food or both in some manner
unknown to us. But while we admit this, we have, in fact, to form our
decision on what is known to us, not what is conceivable but unknown.
“When we come to the third possibility, that the poison was
administered to deceased by some other person or persons with intent
to compass his death, we find it supported by positive evidence. There
is the bottle of medicine for instance. It contained a large quantity
of arsenic in a soluble form. But two witnesses have sworn that it
could not have contained, and, in fact, did not contain that quantity
of arsenic when it left Dr. Dimsdale’s surgery or when it was
delivered at deceased’s house. Moreover, Miss Norris has sworn that
she examined this bottle of medicine at six o’clock in the evening and
that it did not then contain more than a small quantity—less than a
drachm—of Liquor Arsenicalis. She was perfectly positive. She spoke
with expert knowledge. She gave her reasons, and they were sound
reasons. So that the evidence in our possession is to the effect that
at six o’clock in the afternoon, that bottle of medicine did not
contain more than a drachm—about a teaspoonful—of Liquor Arsenicalis;
whereas at half-past ten, when a dose from the bottle was given to
deceased by the housemaid, it contained some three ounces—about six
tablespoonfuls. This is proved by the discovery of the poison in the
stomach of deceased and by the exact analysis of the contents of the
bottle. It follows that, between six o’clock and half-past ten, that a
large quantity of arsenical solution must have been put into the
bottle. It is impossible to suppose that it could have got in by
accident. Somebody must have put it in; and the only conceivable
object that the person could have had in putting that poison into the
bottle would be to cause the death of deceased.
“But further; the evidence of the medical witnesses proves that
arsenic had been taken by deceased on several previous occasions.
That, in fact, he had been taking arsenic in relatively small doses
for some time past—how long we do not know—and had been suffering from
chronic arsenical poisoning. The evidence, therefore, points very
strongly and definitely to the conclusion that some person or persons
had been, for some unascertained time past, administering arsenic to
him.
“Finally, as to the identity of the person or persons who administered
the poison, I need not point out that we have no evidence. You will
have noticed that a number of persons benefit in a pecuniary sense by
deceased’s death. But that fact establishes no suspicion against any
of them in the absence of positive evidence; and there is no positive
evidence connecting any one of them with the administration of the
poison. With these remarks, gentlemen, I leave you to consider the
evidence and agree upon your decision.”
The jury did not take long in arriving at their verdict. After a few
minutes’ eager discussion, the foreman announced that they had come to
an unanimous decision.
“And what is the decision upon which you have agreed?” the coroner
asked.
“We find,” was the reply, “that deceased died from the effects of
arsenic, administered to him by some person or persons unknown, with
the deliberate intention of causing his death.”
“Yes,” said the coroner; “that is, in effect, a verdict of wilful
murder against some person or persons unknown. I agree with you
entirely. No other verdict was possible on the evidence before us. It
is unfortunate that no clue has happened as to the perpetrator of this
abominable crime, but we may hope that the investigations of the
police will result in the identification and conviction of the
murderer.”
The conclusion of the coroner’s address brought the proceedings to an
end, and as he finished speaking, the spectators rose and began to
pass out of the Court. I remained for a minute to speak a few words to
Mr. Holman and ask him to transcribe his report in duplicate. Then, I,
too, went out to find my three companions squeezing into a taxicab
which had drawn up opposite the entrance, watched with ghoulish
curiosity by a quite considerable crowd. The presence of that crowd
informed me that the horrible notoriety which I had foreseen had even
now begun to envelop us. The special editions of the evening papers
were already out, with, at least, the opening scenes of the inquest in
print. Indeed, during the short drive to Hilborough Square, I saw more
than one news-vendor dealing out papers to little knots of eager
purchasers, and once, through the open window, a stentorian voice was
borne in with hideous distinctness, announcing: “Sensational Inquest!
Funeral stopped!”
I glanced from Wallingford, cowering in his corner, to Barbara,
sitting stiffly upright with a slight frown on her pale face. As she
caught my eye, she remarked bitterly:
“It seems that we are having greatness thrust upon us.”