The Morlandson Trial
The Professor came down to breakfast next morning looking even more
weary than on the previous day. Harold, looking at him anxiously,
guessed that he had hardly slept at all during the night. Some
absorbing train of thought, whether started by Hanslet’s story of the
previous evening or not, had taken possession of his brain. But, in
spite of his weariness, there was a queer gleam in the piercing eyes
behind the powerful spectacles, which Harold knew from past experience
to be the light of battle.
“I have some work for you to-day, my boy,” he said, as soon as the
meal was over. “I want you to go to the British Museum and look up the
reports of the trials for murder at the Old Bailey during the first
ten years of the present century. Among them you will find the trial
of a doctor for the murder of one of his patients by giving him an
overdose of morphia. I believe that the doctor’s name began with an M,
and I fancy that his patient had a title. More than this I cannot tell
you, my memory, I regret to say, is not what it used to be. I want you
to make a précis of that trial and of the sentence.”
“Very good, sir,” replied Harold, and forthwith started on his quest.
He could not guess the purpose for which the Professor required this
information, but it could obviously have nothing to do with these
intriguing murders in Praed Street which Hanslet had described.
Unless, perhaps, the Professor had seen some parallel between the
methods of the unknown criminal and those of this vague doctor whose
name began with an M. You never could predict the direction from which
the Professor would approach a problem. All that you could be certain
of was that it would be different from the one you anticipated.
Arrived at the Museum, where he was a frequent visitor on similar
errands, he went carefully through the index to the Law Reports. It
was not until he came to the year 1906, that he met with anything
which corresponded to the data which the Professor had given him. Then
he found a reference to the trial of one Doctor Morlandson for the
murder of Lord Whatley. This must be the case to which his employer
had referred. He turned up the records, and proceeded to make a
careful abstract.
It appeared that Lord Whatley had been a man of middle age, and of
some considerable wealth. Dr. Morlandson was his regular medical
attendant, and in 1905 he had been compelled to warn his patient that
he was suffering from cancer, and that though an operation might be
successful, there was grave doubt that it would permanently remove the
source of the trouble. However, Lord Whatley consented to undergo the
operation. He was removed to a nursing home, and a specialist was
called in. The patient went through the ordeal satisfactorily, and
after a while he returned home.
But, by the beginning of the following year, the symptoms reasserted
themselves, and Dr. Morlandson informed his patient, who insisted that
he should be told the truth, that nothing more could be done, and that
Lord Whatley had nothing to look forward to but perhaps a year or two
of suffering. The relations between the two men were rather those of
close friendship than of doctor and patient, and, subsequent to Dr.
Morlandson’s pronouncement, they saw a great deal of one another.
Morlandson devoted as much time as he could spare from his practice to
sitting with Lord Whatley, who was a childless widower and did not
encourage the visits of his friends and relations.
By the end of February it appeared that the disease was progressing
even more rapidly than Dr. Morlandson had anticipated. He administered
frequent injections of morphia, and his patient was rarely conscious.
Morlandson continued to spend the greater part of his time with him,
and in Lord Whatley’s brief intervals of consciousness his doctor, and
the nurses who had been called in, were the only people he spoke to.
He died early in March, in the presence of Dr. Morlandson and one of
the nurses, without regaining consciousness. A cousin of Lord
Whatley’s, who happened to be his nearest relative, was in the house,
and Morlandson informed him that he would return home and bring the
necessary certificate with him later in the day. Morlandson, who lived
about a mile away, started to walk home. When he had almost reached
his own house, he heard a sound of confused shouting, and saw a
runaway horse attached to a milk-cart, coming towards him. Without a
moment’s hesitation he rushed for the horse’s head, and had almost
succeeded in stopping him, when he slipped and fell. One of the
horse’s hoofs struck him on the head and he was left unconscious on
the road.
The spectators of the accident picked him up, and he was carried into
his own house. A colleague was summoned, and declared that he was
suffering from severe concussion. This diagnosis proved correct, and
Morlandson lay in a state of semi-consciousness for nearly a week. On
his recovery, he found the house in possession of the police.
Lord Whatley’s cousin, hearing of the accident to Dr. Morlandson, and
learning that he could not possibly attend to his duties for some time
to come, was at a loss for the want of a death certificate. He
therefore sent for another doctor—not the man who was attending
Morlandson—and asked him to sign the certificate. This the doctor
would have done, had not one of the nurses, whom Morlandson had
reprimanded for some breach of duty, made some vague insinuation that
everything was not as it should be. The doctor insisted upon examining
the body, and as a result of this examination he communicated with the
authorities. A post-mortem was held, and Lord Whatley was proved to
have died of an overdose of morphia. The experts gave it as their
opinion that the deceased would not have died of the disease from
which he was suffering for another year at least. A warrant was
immediately issued for Dr. Morlandson’s arrest.
When Lord Whatley’s will came to be read, it was found that he had
left the sum of ten thousand pounds to Morlandson, conditional upon
his being his medical attendant at the time of his death. This bequest
was contained in a codicil executed early in February.
Morlandson came up for trial at the Old Bailey in July. The
prosecution alleged that the codicil disclosed the motive for the
murder, and submitted that Morlandson, fearing lest Lord Whatley
should change his doctor before he died, had made certain of securing
the legacy by poisoning him. They pointed out that, but for
Morlandson’s accident, he would have been able to certify cancer as
the cause of Lord Whatley’s death, and no suspicion would have been
aroused.
Dr. Morlandson’s counsel put in a very striking defence. In effect, he
pleaded guilty to the act of poisoning, but affirmed that this was
done at Lord Whatley’s express command. He had already suffered
considerably and undergone an ineffectual operation, and refused to
contemplate the further agony to which he was condemned. As soon as
Morlandson had informed him that his case was hopeless, he had begged
him to put a end to his sufferings at once, pointing out that such a
course would cause no grief or inconvenience to anyone. Morlandson had
at first refused, but at last, upon the solemn assurance of Lord
Whatley that he would find some means of committing suicide unless his
wishes were complied with, he consented to inject morphia in
increasing doses. This Lord Whatley agreed to, and whenever he was
conscious Morlandson begged him to reconsider his determination.
Finally, knowing that the disease was incurable, and that the man he
cared for as his friend could only endure months of suffering under
his very eyes, he bade him farewell and administered the fatal dose.
The news of the bequest came as a complete surprise to him.
Morlandson’s defence raised in an acute form a controversy which had
been going on for many years. Many people held that he was completely
justified in his action, that his offence was purely technical, and
that at the most it merited a short term of imprisonment. But the
jury, in spite of a hint from the judge, found Morlandson guilty of
murder and refused to add a rider recommending him to mercy. Sentence
of death was duly pronounced, but the Home Secretary, the Court of
Criminal Appeal not being then in existence, ordered a reprieve, and
the sentence was commuted to one of twenty years’ penal servitude.
Morlandson’s wife, to whom he was deeply attached, died before a year
of it had expired.
This was the substance of the notes which Harold Merefield brought
back to Dr. Priestley. The latter read them through carefully, then
gave them back to his secretary. “Yes, I thought that I was not
mistaken,” he said. “The facts of the case come back to me very
clearly now. It made a considerable sensation at the time, owing to
the principle involved. Right or wrong, Morlandson was acting in
accordance with his lights. His evidence, I remember, was given with
an air of passionate conviction. This Lord Whatley was his friend, and
he had saved him from suffering at the expense of twenty years of his
own life. I wonder whether he survived his sentence? It would be most
interesting to learn.”
The Professor relapsed into his favourite attitude of thought, his
eyes fixed upon the ceiling, his hands, with the tips of the fingers
touching, laid upon the table in front of him. He remained like this
for many minutes before he spoke again.
“It would be so interesting that I feel impelled to take steps to
discover the facts,” he said. “After lunch I shall visit the record
department of Scotland Yard. While I am away, you can complete the
filing of those papers I gave you yesterday, relating to the work
which we have just completed.”
Harold received these instructions without any great enthusiasm. He
was not greatly interested in the case of this Dr. Morlandson, since
it had occurred so many years ago and could have no possible bearing
upon any problem of the present day. In his recollection of this
forgotten trial the Professor seemed to be neglecting entirely the
problems presented by the murders in Praed Street. Perhaps he had
decided that they were not worthy of his notice. It was not every
problem submitted to him which appealed to him sufficiently to induce
him to devote his energies to its solution.
He spent the afternoon in the study, working half-heartedly and
awaiting the Professor’s return. But it was not until nearly
dinner-time that his employer came in, and then he could see by his
expression that the result of his search had in some way disappointed
him. Dinner was passed in almost complete silence, and the two
returned once more to the study.
“I have discovered the subsequent history of Dr. Morlandson,”
announced the Professor abruptly, as soon as he had finished his
coffee. “I will recount to you the result of my researches at Scotland
Yard. You can make notes of them, and file them with your précis of
his trial.”
Harold produced pencil and paper, and the Professor proceeded to give
an account of how he had spent the afternoon. After some delay the
authorities at Scotland Yard, who were always anxious to carry out any
of Dr. Priestley’s requests, even though they were ignorant of the
motive behind them, had found the record of Morlandson’s career after
his sentence. He had been sent to Dartmoor, and had served his time
there. He had been released on licence in 1920, having undergone
fourteen years of his sentence. He had then remained for a short time
in London, arranging his affairs, but had not communicated with
anybody but his solicitor, to whom he had expressed his intention of
spending the rest of his life in the most complete seclusion, and
devoting himself to chemical research, for which he had always had a
bent during the period in which he was in practice.
Before the catastrophe which had overtaken him, Morlandson had been a
tall, spare man, clean-shaven, and with carefully brushed dark hair.
Upon his release he had developed a slight stoop, and although he was
still clean-shaven and smart in his appearance, his hair had gone
nearly white. He told his solicitor that he knew he had only a few
years longer to live, but that he hoped that during that period his
researches would confer some benefit upon suffering humanity. He
proposed to commence them as soon as he could find a suitable spot for
the purpose, where he could live entirely alone.
A few weeks after his release, he found a half-ruined cottage which
answered to his requirements, situated in a peculiarly desolate part
of the Isle of Purbeck, in Dorsetshire. He took up his residence here,
repaired the cottage, and added to it a laboratory, built of concrete.
Under the terms of his licence he was compelled to report to the
police, and they kept an eye upon his movements. They might have saved
themselves the trouble. Once he was established in his cottage, his
furthest excursion was to Corfe Castle, the nearest town, to obtain
supplies. He lived entirely alone, and invariably walked across the
heath to and from his cottage. But, even while living this hermit
existence, he was always carefully dressed and shaved. He made no
attempt to conceal his identity, but called himself Mr. Morlandson,
having dropped the prefix “Doctor.” He had, of course, been struck off
the register, and could not have practised as a doctor even had he
desired to do so.
The local superintendent to whom he reported conceived a liking for
him, and occasionally walked across the heath to visit him. He
invariably found him at work in his laboratory, which was plentifully
stocked with chemicals of various kinds. He would never allow smoking
in the laboratory, for, as he pointed out to the superintendent, the
substances with which he was experimenting were highly inflammable,
and there was consequently grave risk of fire unless proper
precautions were taken.
One night, rather more than a year after Morlandson’s release, flames
were seen from Corfe Castle across the heath in the direction of his
cottage. The superintendent leapt on his bicycle, and dashed off to
the scene. When he arrived, he found the laboratory burning like a
furnace, and quite unapproachable. The flames had caught the cottage,
which was by then past saving, especially as the only available water
supply was from a well fitted with a small bucket. The superintendent,
at considerable risk to himself, managed to enter the sitting-room of
the cottage, but could see no trace of Morlandson.
By morning the fire had burnt itself out. The cottage had been
completely destroyed, only two or three feet of the outer walls
remaining. The laboratory, being built of concrete, had fared rather
better. The greater part of the walls remained, as did the steel door,
which formed the only entrance. The place had no windows, but had been
lighted from above through sky-lights in the roof. These and the roof
itself had completely disappeared. The iron door was found to be
locked upon the inside.
When it had been broken down, the interior of the laboratory showed
how fierce the fire had been. Every trace of wood had been consumed,
and solid metal fittings had been melted into unrecognizable shapes.
Among the debris on the floor lay a charred human skeleton, upon one
of the fingers of which was a half-melted gold ring, of which enough
remained for the superintendent to identify it as having been
habitually worn by Morlandson. The remains of the unfortunate man were
huddled up by the door, the key of which was in the lock. It was clear
that Morlandson had tried to make his way out when the fire broke out,
but had been overcome by the fumes of the burning chemicals before he
could achieve his purpose. He had been in the habit of locking the
door in order to secure himself from interruption.
“You have made notes upon this?” asked the Professor. “Good. File them
away. I confess that there are many things about this man Morlandson
which I do not yet understand. I was able to supplement your account
of the trial by an examination of the original records, which I was
allowed to make. These gave me considerable food for thought. I
believe that, through a pure accident, I have stumbled upon one of the
most curious occurrences of modern times. I can, as yet, only
conjecture, and so far my conjectures are wholly unsupported by fact.
Much research will be necessary before these facts can be established,
and it is possible that I may not be spared for a sufficient time to
carry out this research.”
“Not be spared, sir!” exclaimed Harold, startled by the grave tone of
the Professor’s voice. “Why, you have many years before you yet, I
hope.”
“Death comes to us all, sooner, perhaps, than we expect,” replied Dr.
Priestley. “And I feel, this evening, that death may be closer to me
than I have supposed. Ah, do I hear someone in the hall?”
With a nervous movement, entirely foreign to him, Dr. Priestley rose
from his chair and stood facing the door. Harold, with a queer feeling
of expectation, walked towards it and opened it. In the hall stood
Inspector Hanslet, handing his coat and hat to Mary.
“Good evening, Mr. Merefield, I thought I’d look round and see if the
Professor had any information for me,” he said. “May I see him?”
“Yes, come in by all means,” replied Harold, with a sudden sense of
relief. “But I shouldn’t stay too long, if I were you. He’s rather
tired and nervy to-night.”
Hanslet nodded, and Harold led the way into the study. “It’s Inspector
Hanslet, sir,” he said.
The Professor appeared to have entirely recovered his usual
equanimity. “Ah, good evening, Inspector,” he said blandly. “I half
expected that you would be round this evening. I am very glad to see
you.”
“I thought I would come round, on the chance that you had some hint to
give me,” replied Hanslet. “I can’t make head or tail of the business
I told you about last night. The more I think about it, the more
puzzling it seems. It’s the utter lack of motive that makes it all so
inexplicable.”
“I believe, mind, I say only that I believe, that I have discovered
the motive,” said the Professor quietly.
“You have!” exclaimed Hanslet excitedly. Then, seeing the slow
movement of the Professor’s head, he smiled. “I know you won’t tell me
until you are certain,” he continued. “But at least tell me this. Are
there likely to be any more of these mysterious deaths?”
“There will be one more, unless I am able to prevent it,” replied the
Professor.