It was on the second day after the interrupted
funeral that the thunderbolt fell. I cannot say that it
found me entirely unprepared, for my reflections
during the intervening day had filled me with forebodings;
and by Thorndyke the catastrophe was pretty plainly
foreseen. But on the others the blow fell with
devastating effect. However, I must not anticipate.
Rather let me get back to a consecutive narration of
the actual events.
On the day after the visit of the coroner’s officer
we had held, at my suggestion, a sort of family
committee to consider what we knew of the circumstances
and antecedents of Harold’s death, so that we might
be in a position to give our evidence clearly and readily
and be in agreement as to the leading facts. Thus
we went to the coroner’s court prepared, at least, to tell
an intelligible and consistent story.
As soon as I entered the large room in which the
inquest was to be held, my forebodings deepened. The
row of expectant reporters was such as one does not
find where the proceedings are to be no more than a
simple, routine inquiry. Something of public interest
was anticipated, and these gentlemen of the Press had
received a hint from some well-informed quarter. I
ran my eye along the row and was somewhat relieved
to observe Mr. Holman, Thorndyke’s private reporter,
seated at the table with a large note-book and a
half-dozen well-sharpened pencils before him. His
presence—as, in a sense, Thorndyke’s deputy—gave me the
reassuring feeling that, if there were to be
“complications,” I should not have to meet them with my own
limited knowledge and experience, but that there were
reserves of special knowledge and weighty counsel on
which I could fall back.
The coroner’s manner seemed to me ominous. His
introductory address to the jury was curt and
ambiguous, setting forth no more than the name of the
deceased and the fact that circumstances had seemed to
render an inquiry advisable; and having said this, he
proceeded forthwith (the jury having already viewed
the body) to call the first witness, the Reverend Amos
Monkhouse.
I need not repeat the clergyman’s evidence in detail.
When he had identified the body as that of his brother,
Harold, he went on to relate the events which I have
recorded: his visit to his sick brother, his alarm at the
patient’s appearance, his call upon Dr. Dimsdale and
his subsequent interview with Sir Robert Detling. It
was all told in a very concise, matter-of-fact manner,
and I noted that the coroner did not seek to amplify
the condensed statement by any questions.
“At about nine o’clock in the morning of the 13th,”
the witness continued, “I received a telegram from
Miss Norris informing me that my brother had died
in the night. I went out at once and sent a telegram
to Sir Robert Detling informing him of what had
happened. I then went to number 16 Hilborough
Square, where I saw the body of deceased lying in his
bed quite cold and stiff. I saw nobody at the house
excepting the housemaid and Mr. Mayfield. After
leaving the house I walked about the streets for several
hours and did not return to my hotel until late in the
afternoon. When I arrived there, I found awaiting me
a telegram from Sir Robert Detling asking me to call
on him without delay. I set forth at once and arrived
at Sir Robert’s house at half-past five, and was shown
into his study immediately. Sir Robert then told me
that he had come to the conclusion that the
circumstances of my brother’s death called for some
investigation and that he proposed to communicate with the
coroner. He urged me not to raise any objections and
advised me to say nothing to any one but to wait until
the coroner’s decision was made known. I asked him
for his reasons for communicating with the coroner,
but he said that he would rather not make any
statement. I heard no more until the morning of the
fifteenth, the day appointed for the funeral, when the
coroner’s officer called at my hotel to inform me that
the funeral would not take place and to serve the
summons for my attendance here as a witness.”
When Amos had concluded his statement, the coroner
glanced at the jury, and as no one offered to put any
questions, he dismissed the witness and called the
next—Mabel Withers—who, at once, came forward to the
table. Having been sworn and having given her
name, the witness deposed that she had been
housemaid to deceased and that it was she who had
discovered the fact of his death, relating the
circumstances in much the same words as I have recorded.
When she had finished her narrative, the coroner said:
“You have told us that the candle in the deceased’s
lamp was completely burnt out. Do you happen to
know how long one of those candles would burn?”
“Yes. About four hours.”
“When did you last see deceased alive?”
“At half-past ten on Tuesday night, the twelfth.
I looked in at his room on my way up to bed to see if he
wanted anything, and I gave him a dose of medicine.”
“What was his condition then?”
“He looked very ill, but he seemed fairly comfortable.
He had a book in his hand but was not reading.”
“Was the candle alight then?”
“No, the gas was alight. I asked him if I should
turn it out but he said ‘no.’ He would wait until Miss
Norris or Mr. Wallingford came.”
“Did you notice how much candle there was in the
lamp then?”
“There was a whole candle. I put it in myself in the
afternoon and it had not been lit. He used to read
by the gas as long as it was alight. He only used the
candle-lamp if he couldn’t sleep and the gas was out.”
“Could you form any opinion as to how long the
candle had been burnt out?”
“It must have been out some time, for there was no
smell in the room as there would have been if it had
only been out a short time. The window was hardly
open at all; only just a small crack.”
“Do you know when deceased last took food?”
“Yes, he had his supper at eight o’clock; an omelette
and a tiny piece of toast with a glass of milk.”
“Who cooked the omelette?”
“Miss Norris.”
“Why did Miss Norris cook it? Was the cook out?”
“No. But Miss Norris usually cooked his supper
and sometimes made little dishes for his lunch. She is
a very expert cook.”
“Who took the omelette up to deceased?”
“Miss Norris. I asked if I should take his supper
up, but she said she was going up and would take it
herself.”
“Was any one else present when Miss Norris was
cooking the omelette?”
“Yes, I was present and so was the cook.”
“Did deceased usually have the same food as the rest
of the household?”
“No, he usually had his own special diet.”
“Who prepared his food, as a rule?”
“Sometimes the cook, but more often Miss Norris.”
“Now, with regard to his medicine. Did deceased
usually take it himself?”
“No, he didn’t like to have the bottle on the bedside
table, as it was rather crowded with his books and
things. The bottle and the medicine-glass were kept on
the mantelpiece and the medicine was given to him by
whoever happened to be in the room when a dose was
due. Sometimes I gave it to him; at other times Mrs.
Monkhouse or Miss Norris or Mr. Wallingford.”
“Do you remember when the last bottle of medicine
came?”
“Yes. It came early in the afternoon of the day
before he died. I took it in and carried it up at once.”
When he had written down this answer, the coroner
ran his eye through his previous notes and then glanced
at the jury.
“Do any of you gentlemen wish to ask the witness
any questions?” he enquired; and as no one answered,
he dismissed the witness with the request that she
would stay in the court in case any further testimony
should be required of her. He then announced that he
would take the evidence of Sir Robert Detling next
in order to release him for his probably numerous
engagements. Sir Robert’s name was accordingly called
and a grave-looking, elderly gentleman rose from near
the doorway and walked up to the table. When the
new witness had been sworn and the formal
preliminaries disposed of, the coroner said:
“I will ask you, Sir Robert, to give the jury an
account of the circumstances which led to your
making a certain communication to me.”
Sir Robert bowed gravely and proceeded at once
to make his statement in the clear, precise manner of
a practised speaker.
“On Friday, the 8th instant, the Reverend Amos
Monkhouse called on me to arrange a consultation with
Dr. Dimsdale who was in attendance on his brother,
the deceased. I met Dr. Dimsdale by appointment the
following afternoon, the 9th, and with him made a
careful examination of deceased. I was extremely puzzled
by the patient’s condition. He was obviously very
seriously—I thought, dangerously—ill, but I was
unable to discover any signs or symptoms that
satisfactorily accounted for his grave general condition. I
could not give his disease a name. Eventually, I took
a number of blood-films and some specimens of the
secretions to submit to a pathologist for examination
and to have them tested for micro-organisms. I took
them that night to Professor Garnett’s laboratory, but
the professor was unfortunately absent and not
returning until the following night—Sunday. I
therefore kept them until Sunday night when I took them
to him and asked him to examine them with as little
delay as possible. He reported on the following day
that microscopical examination had not brought to light
anything abnormal, but he was making cultures from
the secretions and would report the result on
Wednesday morning. On Wednesday morning at about
half-past nine, I received a telegram from the Reverend
Amos Monkhouse informing me that his brother had
died during the night. A few minutes later, a
messenger brought Professor Garnett’s report; which was to
the effect that no disease-bearing organisms had been
found, nor anything abnormal excepting a rather
singular scarcity of micro-organisms of any kind.
“This fact, together with the death of the patient,
suddenly aroused my suspicions. For the absence of
the ordinary micro-organisms suggested the presence of
some foreign chemical substance. And now, as I
recalled the patient’s symptoms, I found them consistent
with the presence in the body of some foreign
substance. Instantly, I made my way to Professor
Garnett’s laboratory and communicated my suspicions to
him. I found that he shared them and had carefully
preserved the remainder of the material for further
examination. We both suspected the presence of a
foreign substance, and we both suspected it to be
arsenic.
“The professor had at hand the means of making a
chemical test, so we proceeded at once to use them.
The test that we employed was the one known as
Reinsch’s test. The result showed a very appreciable
amount of arsenic in the secretions tested. On this, I
sealed up what was left of the specimens, and, after
notifying Mr. Monkhouse of my intention, reported the
circumstances to the coroner.”
When Sir Robert ceased speaking, the coroner bowed,
and having written down the last words, reflected for a
few moments. Then he turned to the jury and said:
“I don’t think we need detain Sir Robert any longer
unless there are any questions that you would like to
ask.”
At this point the usual over-intelligent juryman
interposed.
“We should like to know whether the vessels in which
the specimens were contained were perfectly clean and
free from chemicals.”
“The bottles,” Sir Robert replied, “were clean in the
ordinary sense. I rinsed them out with clean water
before introducing the material. But, of course, they
could not be guaranteed to be chemically clean.”
“Then doesn’t that invalidate the analysis?” the
juror asked.
“It was hardly an analysis,” the witness replied.
“It was just a preliminary test.”
“The point which you are raising, Sir,” said the
coroner, “is quite a sound one but it is not relevant to
this inquiry. Sir Robert’s test was made to ascertain
if an inquiry was necessary. He decided that it was,
and we are now holding that inquiry. You will not
form your verdict on the results of Sir Robert’s test
but on those of the post mortem examination and the
special analysis that has been made.”
This explanation appeared to satisfy the juror and
Sir Robert was allowed to depart. The coroner once
more seemed to consider awhile and then addressed the
jury.
“I think it will be best to take next the evidence
relating to the examination of the body. When you
have heard that you will be better able to weigh the
significance of what the other witnesses have to tell
us. We will now take the evidence of Dr. Randall.”
As the new witness, a small, dry, eminently
professional-looking man, stepped briskly up to the table, I
stole a quick, rather furtive glance at my companions
and saw my own alarm plainly reflected in their faces
and bearing. Barbara, on my left hand, sat up stiffly,
rigid as a statue, her face pale and set, but quite
composed, her eyes fixed on the man who was about to be
sworn. Madeline, on my right, was ghastly. But she,
too, was still and quiet, sitting with her hands tightly
clasped, as if to restrain or conceal their trembling,
and her eyes bent on the floor. As to Wallingford,
who sat on the other side of Barbara, I could not see
his face, but by his foot, which I could see and hear,
tapping quickly on the floor as if he were working a
spinning-wheel, and his incessantly moving hands, I
judged that his nerves were at full tension.
The new witness deposed that his name was Walter
Randall, that he was a Bachelor of Medicine and police
surgeon of the district and that he had made a careful
examination of the body of deceased and that, with
Dr. Barnes, he had made an analysis of certain parts
of that body.
“To anticipate a little,” said the coroner, “did you
arrive at an opinion as to the cause of death?”
“Yes. From the post mortem examination and the
analysis taken together, I came to the conclusion that
deceased died from the effects of arsenic poisoning.”
“Have you any doubt that arsenic poisoning was
really the cause of the deceased’s death?”
“No, I have no doubt whatever.”
The reply, uttered with quiet decision, elicited a low
murmur from the jury and the few spectators, amidst
which I heard Madeline gasp in a choking whisper,
“Oh! God!” and even Barbara was moved to a low cry
of horror. But I did not dare to look at either of them.
As for me, the blow had fallen already. Sir Robert’s
evidence had told me all.
“You said,” the coroner resumed, “that the post
mortem and the analysis, taken together, led you to
this conclusion. What did you mean by that?”
“I meant that the appearance of the internal organs,
taken alone, would not have been conclusive. The
conditions that I found were suggestive of arsenic
poisoning but might possibly have been due to disease.
It was only the ascertained presence of arsenic that
converted the probability into certainty.”
“You are quite sure that the conditions were not due
to disease?”
“Not entirely. I would rather say that the effects
of arsenical poisoning were added to and mingled with
those of old-standing disease.”
“Would you tell us briefly what abnormal
conditions you found?”
“The most important were those in the stomach,
which showed marked signs of inflammation.”
“You are aware that the death certificate gives
old-standing chronic gastritis as one of the causes of
death?”
“Yes, and I think correctly. The arsenical gastritis
was engrafted on an already existing chronic gastritis.
That is what made the appearances rather difficult to
interpret, especially as the post mortem appearances in
arsenical poisoning are extraordinarily variable.”
“What else did you find?”
“There were no other conditions that were directly
associated with the poison. The heart was rather fatty
and dilated, and its condition probably accounts for the
sudden collapse which seems to have occurred.”
“Does not collapse usually occur in poisoning by
arsenic?”
“Eventually it does, but it is usually the last of a
long train of symptoms. In some cases, however,
collapse occurs quite early and may carry the victim off
at once. That is what appears from the housemaid’s
evidence to have happened in this case. Death seems
to have been sudden and almost peaceful.”
“Were there any other signs of disease?”
“Yes, the lungs were affected. There were signs of
considerable bronchial catarrh, but I do not regard
this as having any connection with the effects of the
poison. It appeared to be an old-standing condition.”
“Yes,” said the coroner. “The certificate mentions
chronic bronchial catarrh of several years’ standing.
Did you find any arsenic in the stomach?”
“Not in the solid form and only a little more than a
hundredth of a grain altogether. The stomach was
practically empty. The other organs were practically
free from disease, excepting, perhaps, the kidneys,
which were congested but not organically diseased.”
“And as to the amount of arsenic present?”
“The analysis was necessarily a rather hasty one
and probably shows less than the actual quantity; but
we found, as I have said, just over a hundredth of a
grain in the stomach, one and a half grains in the
liver, nearly a fifth of a grain in the kidneys and small
quantities, amounting in all to two grains, in the blood
and tissues. The total amount actually found was thus
a little over three and a half grains—a lethal dose.”
“What is the fatal dose of arsenic?”
“Two grains may prove fatal if taken in solution,
as it appears to have been in this case. Two and a half
grains, in a couple of ounces of fly-paper water, killed
a strong, healthy girl of nineteen in thirty-six hours.”
“And how long does a poisonous dose take to
produce death?”
“The shortest period recorded is twenty minutes,
the longest, over three weeks.”
“Did you come to any general conclusion as to how
long deceased had been suffering from the effects of
arsenic and as to the manner in which it had been
administered?”
“From the distribution of the poison in the organs
and tissues and from the appearance of the body, I
inferred that the administration of arsenic had been
going on for a considerable time. There were signs
of chronic poisoning which led me to believe that for
quite a long time—perhaps months—deceased had been
taking repeated small doses of the poison, and that
the final dose took such rapid effect by reason of the
enfeebled state of the deceased at the time when it was
administered.”
“And as to the mode of administration? Did you
ascertain that?”
“In part, I ascertained it quite definitely. When the
bearers went to the house to fetch the body, I
accompanied them and took the opportunity to examine the
bedroom. There I found on the mantelpiece a bottle
of medicine with the name of deceased on the label
and brought it away with me. It was an eight ounce
bottle containing when full eight doses, of which only
one had been taken. Dr. Barnes and I, together,
analyzed the remaining seven ounces of the medicine
and obtained from it just over eleven grains of arsenic;
that is a fraction over a grain and a half in each ounce
dose. The arsenic was in solution and had been
introduced into the medicine in the form of the solution
known officially as Liquor Arsenicalis, or Fowler’s
Solution.”
“That is perfectly definite,” said the coroner. “But
you said that you ascertained the mode of administration
in part. Do you mean that you inferred the
existence of some other vehicle?”
“Yes. A single dose of this medicine contained only
a grain and a half of arsenic, which would hardly
account for the effects produced or the amount of arsenic
which was found in the body. Of course, the preceding
dose from the other bottle may have contained the
poison, too, or it may have been taken in some other
way.”
“What other way do you suggest?”
“I can merely suggest possibilities. A meal was
taken about eight o’clock. If that meal had contained
a small quantity of arsenic—even a single grain—that,
added to what was in the medicine, would have been
enough to cause death. But there is no evidence
whatever that the food did contain arsenic.”
“If the previous dose of medicine had contained the
same quantity of the poison as the one that was last
taken, would that account for the death of deceased?”
“Yes. He would then have taken over three grains
in four hours—more than the minimum fatal dose.”
“Did you see the other—the empty medicine bottle?”
“No. I looked for it and should have taken
possession of it, but it was not there.”
“Is there anything else that you have to tell us
concerning your examination?”
“No, I think I have told you all I know about the
case.”
The coroner cast an interrogatory glance at the jury,
and when none of them accepted the implied invitation,
he released the witness and named Dr. Barnes as his
successor.
I need not record in detail the evidence of this
witness. Having deposed that he was a Doctor of Science
and lecturer on Chemistry at St. Martha’s Medical
College, he proceeded to confirm Dr. Randall’s
evidence as to the analysis, giving somewhat fuller and
more precise details. He had been present at the
autopsy, but he was not a pathologist and was not
competent to describe the condition of the body. He had
analyzed the contents of the medicine bottle with Dr.
Randall’s assistance and he confirmed the last
witness’s statement as to the quantity of arsenic found
and the form in which it had been introduced—Fowler’s
Solution.
“What is the strength of Fowler’s Solution?”
“It contains four grains of arsenic—or, more strictly,
of arsenious acid—to the fluid ounce. So that, as
the full bottle of medicine must have contained just
over twelve and a half grains of arsenious acid, the
quantity of Fowler’s Solution introduced must have
been a little over three fluid ounces; three point
fourteen, to be exact.”
“You are confident that it was Fowler’s Solution that
was used?”
“Yes; the chemical analysis showed that; but in
addition, there was the colour and the smell. Fowler’s
Solution is coloured red with Red Sandalwood and
scented with Tincture of Lavender as a precaution
against accidents. Otherwise it would be colourless,
odourless and tasteless, like water.”
On the conclusion of Dr. Barnes’s evidence, the
coroner remarked to the jury: “I think we ought to be clear
on the facts with regard to this medicine. Let Mabel
Withers be recalled.”
Once more the housemaid took her place by the
table and the coroner resumed the examination.
“You say that the last bottle of medicine came early
in the afternoon. Can you tell us the exact time?”
“It was about a quarter to three. I remember that
because when I took up the new bottle, I asked Mr.
Monkhouse if he had had his medicine and he said
that his brother, Mr. Amos Monkhouse, had given
him a dose at two o’clock just before he left.”
“Did you open the fresh bottle?”
“I took off the paper wrapping and the cap but I
didn’t take the cork out.”
“Was the old bottle empty then?”
“No; there was one dose left in it. That would be
due at six o’clock.”
“Do you know what became of the old bottle?”
“Yes. When I had given him his last dose—that
was out of the new bottle—I took the old bottle away
and washed it at once.”
“Why did you wash the bottle?”
“The used medicine bottles were always washed and
sent back to Dr. Dimsdale.”
“Did you send back the corks, too?”
“No, the corks were usually burned in the rubbish
destructor.”
“Do you know what happened to this particular
cork?”
“I took it down with me in the morning and dropped
it in the bin which was kept for the rubbish to be taken
out to the destructor. The cork must have been burned
with the other rubbish the same day.”
“When you gave deceased that last dose of medicine
from the new bottle, did you notice anything unusual
about it? Any smell, for instance?”
“I noticed a very faint smell of lavender. But that
was not unusual. His medicine often smelt of
lavender.”
“Do you know if the previous bottle of medicine
smelt of lavender?”
“Yes, it did. I noticed it when I was washing out
the bottle.”
“That, gentlemen,” said the coroner, as he wrote
down the answer, “is a very important fact. You will
notice that it bears out Dr. Randall’s opinion that
more than one dose of the poison had been given; that,
in fact, a number of repeated small doses had been
administered. And, so far as we can see at present, the
medicine was, at least, the principal medium of its
administration. The next problem that we have to
solve is how the poison got into the medicine. If none
of you wish to put any questions to the very intelligent
witness whom we have just been examining, I think we
had better call Dr. Dimsdale and hear what he has
to tell us.”
The jury had no questions to put to Mabel but
were manifestly all agog to hear Dr. Dimsdale’s
evidence. The housemaid was accordingly sent back to
her seat, and the doctor stepped briskly—almost too
briskly, I thought—up to the table.
