Medical Detectives

by Robin Odell

  A. From evidence we think ‘No’.

  Q. Was death suicide?

  A. No evidence of suicidal tendencies in these cases, nor of mental instability.

  Q. Was death homicidal?

  A. We think, ‘Right hand on head of woman, left forearm of assailant beneath both knees, left forearm of assailant suddenly raised while right hand is pressed down on head of woman. Then the trunk of body slides down towards the foot end of the bath, the head being submerged in water.’

  During a break in court proceedings, Inspector Neil carried out an experiment in the presence of the jury to demonstrate the theory with the cooperation of a nurse dressed in a bathing costume. He applied the method postulated by Spilsbury and Willcox with startling results, for the volunteer had to be revived by means of artifical respiration. Spilsbury’s biographers recorded his disapproval of the experiment, but if there were any lingering doubts as to the method most likely to have been employed by Smith to despatch his brides, this demonstration must have dispelled them.

  As he had done at Bow Street Magistrates’ Court, Smith made several interventions. When his defence advisers attempted to calm him, he turned on them too, but he saved most of his heckling for Mr Justice Scrutton’s summing-up. ‘You may as well hang me at once, the way you’re going on,’ he shouted. ‘It’s a disgrace to a Christian country, this is. I am not a murderer, though I may be a bit peculiar.’ The summing-up consumed nearly a whole day in court and the judge gave instructions that the infamous baths should be placed in a basement room of the court building so that the jury could take another look at them. The jury was out for a mere twenty minutes before returning to announce a guilty verdict.

  Smith’s appeal was turned down and he was executed at Maidstone on 13 August 1915. Stuart Wood, in his memoirs Shades of the Prison House, gave an account of Smith’s passage to the gallows. Wood was an inmate at Maidstone at the time and pressed his ear to his cell door as Smith was taken to the execution shed. He heard the sound of laboured breathing, of men supporting a heavy burden, and concluded that Smith was in a state of collapse.

  Marshall Hall had been uncharacteristically subdued during the trial. He was up against a masterly presentation of evidence by Bodkin and, having failed to shift Spilsbury on any point of his testimony, must have known he faced a lost cause. His final speech was impressive, though, and he made much of the lack of marks of violence on the victims, arguing that their absence showed lack of proof against the accused man. But in all truth, Spilsbury’s careful reconstruction had shown how easy it was for an unsuspecting victim in a bath tub to be placed at a helpless disadvantage by a scheming murderer. Once the legs had been pulled up and the head drawn down beneath the water there was little the victim could do but thresh about until asphyxiation ensued. With an operator of the calibre of Smith, the only indications of a struggle were likely to be water splashes on the floor.

  After the trial of George Joseph Smith, Willcox went off to Mesopotamia and Spilsbury remained at home discharging an ever-growing number of cases. His family moved to Malvern at the time of the Zeppelin raids on London which allowed him to work a fierce regime, often including Sundays. With laboratory facilities at Marlborough Hill, he was able to work on post-mortem specimens at home and he burned the midnight oil more than was wise. His relaxation came through walking and the occasional game of tennis. It was not a healthy lifestyle and in 1917 he contracted an infection in his left arm after carrying out a post-mortem on a badly decomposed corpse. He was ordered to rest but like many medical men, he found it difficult to obey doctor’s orders. By now, his family had grown and Edith had three children under the age of seven to look after.

  There was no let-up in Spilsbury’s workload during the war years and the pathologist had the unusual experience in the Voisin case of giving evidence to a jury using mime. Louis Voisin, a French butcher living in London, murdered his mistress, Emilienne Gerard, and, having dismembered her body, distributed the parcelled-up pieces around Bloomsbury. Voisin and another lady friend, Berthe Roche, were charged with murder and tried at the Old Bailey in 1918. He was convicted and sentenced to death and she was remanded to be charged as an accessory after the fact.

  According to Spilsbury’s reconstruction of the crime, it was clear that Roche had led the violence which resulted in Mme Gerard’s death. The attack had taken place in the basement of 101 Charlotte Street where the blood patterns on walls and floor spoke eloquently enough to the pathologist. But when Mr Justice Avory instructed the jury to visit the room, Spilsbury was told to remain silent in order not to prejudice the trial. Accordingly, he went through a mime, graphically demonstrating how the murder had been committed and pointing out the distribution of blood spatters. The jury found Voisin guilty and he was hanged, while Berthe Roche was found guilty as an accessory and was sentenced to seven years’ imprisonment. She did not see out her sentence, though, due to her death in a hospice in May 1919.

  Spilsbury’s reputation was made well before the end of the Great War in 1918. His involvement in important murder trials and emergence as a public figure no doubt created professional jealousy among some of his colleagues. The confidence which was characteristic of the man had been strengthened by his success. The coming man had certainly arrived and, in some quarters, his confidence was probably mistaken for arrogance and Spilsbury’s preference for keeping his own counsel provoked some resentment.

  As frequently happens, smouldering ill-feeling erupted from a trivial cause. In 1919, a member of the medical staff at St Mary’s asked Spilsbury to preserve a specimen for him. In his view the item in question did not merit preserving and he offered that opinion. His assessment was not well received and his colleague told him that he should do as he was asked. Not surprisingly, Spilsbury reacted unfavourably to such cavalier treatment and demanded an apology. Thus, a small incident was blown up out of all proportion and when no apology was forthcoming, the matter was referred to the hospital’s Court of Governors, which set up an enquiry.

  Before any decision was reached, Spilsbury tendered his resignation and, on 18 November 1919, broke his twenty-year long association with St Mary’s. His great friend, William Willcox, was embarrassed by the affair but felt that no good would be achieved by attempting to intervene. In the event, the court of enquiry found in Spilsbury’s favour and the other participant in the incident was instructed to apologise.

  The 1920s opened with Spilsbury starting a new appointment as Lecturer on Morbid Anatomy and Histology at St Bartholomew’s Hospital and he carried on his work virtually without interruption. The break with St Mary’s must have been a sad moment for him, but, happily, it did not affect his friendships, especially that which he enjoyed with Willcox. The two men shared the habit of working late at night and frequently met either at Willcox’s home or in Spilsbury’s laboratory at Marlborough Hill to discuss current cases.

  The decade began with two remarkable poisoning cases which shared a number of common features. Both occurred in Wales, both involved arsenical poisoning and in both cases the individual accused was a practising solicitor. The first resulted in the acquittal of Harold Greenwood at Carmarthen in 1920 when he was brilliantly defended by Sir Edward Marshall Hall; the second ended in the conviction of Major Herbert Rowse Armstrong at Hereford in 1922. Willcox was consulted in both cases, while Spilsbury was involved only in the investigation of Major Armstrong’s crime.

  Armstrong was arrested on 31 December 1921 at his office in Hay-on-Wye following a high-level meeting between Sir William Willcox, who had been knighted earlier in the year, and Sir Archibald Bodkin, the Director of Public Prosecutions. Their review of the evidence led to a coroner’s order to exhume the body of Mrs Katharine Armstrong from its grave in Cusop churchyard, where it had lain for ten months. Spilsbury was called in and travelled down to Hay by train via Hereford on 2 January 1922. He was met by the local police Superintendent, who escorted him to the graveside.

  It was early evening on a winter’
s day and the scene was illuminated by hurricane lamps. The disinterred coffin was taken to an empty cottage nearby where it remained under police guard until the post-mortem examination the following day. Spilsbury was assisted by two local doctors in the grisly task of examining a long dead corpse. The body was removed from its oak coffin and placed on a trestle table from which drops of putrefied matter fell to the floor. Conditions such as these – poorly lit, badly ventilated and completely lacking in any washing facilities – were by no means unusual to pathologists of that era.

  As he went about his task, Spilsbury’s first observation was that the body was unusually well preserved and appeared to be undergoing mummification rather than putrefaction in the normal manner. He took various samples of fluid, tissue and organs from the body and put them into specimen jars for laboratory analysis. When the post-mortem examination had been completed, the body was left to be viewed by the coroner’s jury and Spilsbury made a speedy return to London with his sixteen sample jars. He took them straight to St Mary’s for the attention of John Webster, the senior Home Office analyst, and finished a long day by telephoning Willcox to discuss his initial findings.

  The two men met on 12 February to review the scientific evidence, which included Webster’s analyses. Large amounts of arsenic had been found in the liver and large intestine, the latter particularly indicating that poison had probably been administered within twenty-four hours of death. They appeared, together with John Webster, to give their evidence at the magistrates’ court at Hay-on-Wye. The evidence for poisoning was overwhelming and Major Armstrong was committed to trial for the murder of his wife.

  The trial at Hereford produced another powerful line-up of forensic talent. Mr Justice Darling presided and, as was traditional in poisoning cases, the prosecution was headed by the Attorney-General, Sir Ernest Pollock, with the defence in the hands of the redoubtable Sir Henry Curtis Bennett. Spilsbury and Willcox once again appeared together to present the medical evidence.

  Major Armstrong was a small man who liked to cut a dash as a military figure with his heavy, waxed moustache and army officer’s British warm overcoat. Weighing seven stone and standing five feet six inches tall, he was every bit the pocket soldier. He practised as a solicitor in Hay-on-Wye, which in the 1920s, was a small market town situated on the border of England and Wales. He was a well-known figure in the district, clerk to the local magistrates, a member of the local Territorial Army unit and a Freemason. This pillar of the community commanded respect by virtue of his position in the town’s social pecking order but people sniggered behind his back at his posturing and because it was widely known that he was completely under the thumb of his overbearing wife.

  Katharine Armstrong, a rather gaunt-looking lady, was prone to hypochondria and dosed herself with homeopathic medicines. She did not like people touching her, even accidentally, abhorred smoking, ran meals in her home according to a strict timetable and thought nothing of humiliating her husband in public. ‘No wine for the Major’ was her curt instruction to servants at local social functions.

  Mrs Armstrong was taken ill in August 1920 and her doctor, Tom Hincks, arranged for her to be psychiatrically examined. As a result, she was certified insane and admitted to an asylum near Gloucester. She returned after five months and a nurse was brought in to look after her. During February 1921, her health declined and she suffered bouts of severe illness involving vomiting and diarrhoea. Her condition deteriorated rapidly and a stark entry in Major Armstrong’s diary for 22 February read, ‘K died’. She was buried without fuss, the doctor having certified cause of death as gastritis.

  The Major inherited his wife’s estate, amounting to some £2,000, and went on holiday. When he returned to Hay to what he doubtless imagined would be a new, trouble-free life, he encountered a problem in the shape of a rival young solicitor running a law practice from an office across the street from his own. The rival, a career-minded man by the name of Oswald Martin, was successful to the extent that some of Armstrong’s clients had transferred their business to him. In August 1921, the two men clashed over a property deal in which Armstrong, acting for the purchaser, had delayed completion for over a year.

  Martin began to put pressure on the Major to complete. After several weeks, Armstrong, having failed to respond, suddenly invited Martin to take tea with him at his house. On 26 October, Martin made his way to Armstrong’s home at Cusop, just outside the town. They sat in the drawing room and drank tea and, at one stage, Armstrong offered his guest a buttered scone with the apology, ‘Excuse fingers’. Various pleasantries ensued and in due course Martin took his leave. Late that same evening, he was taken violently ill with severe vomiting. The doctor diagnosed a bilious attack but the sick man’s father-in-law who ran the town’s pharmacy, thought otherwise.

  Knowing of Martin’s disagreement with Armstrong and being aware that he had taken tea with the Major, rang alarm bells with the chemist. He remembered that he had recently sold arsenic to Armstrong for the purpose of killing weeds. Apprehension grew stronger when Mrs Constance Martin recalled that a house guest had been taken ill after eating a chocolate from a box that had been delivered by the postman from an anonymous sender. It was agreed that the remaining chocolates and a sample of Oswald Martin’s urine should be sent for analysis.

  Oblivious to the fomenting suspicions about his intentions, Armstrong began to pester Martin with further invitations to tea. These were declined politely but firmly and, after six weeks of waiting, the results of the analysis were made known. Both the urine sample and the chocolates contained arsenic. The wheels of officialdom now moved swiftly and, on the last day of the year, an unsuspecting Major Armstrong, strongly protesting his innocence, was arrested. When he was searched, a packet of arsenic was found in his jacket pocket. This was to weigh heavily against him at his trial.

  Armstrong was tried at the Shire Hall, Hereford in April 1922 before Mr Justice Darling; he pleaded ‘Not Guilty’. The first expert witness for the prosecution was Spilsbury. He gave a report of his post-mortem findings and made it clear that a fatal dose of arsenic was ingested by Katharine Armstrong within twenty-four hours of her death. With the aid of a drawing depicting the human alimentary system, he pointed out the organs which had been subjected to analysis.

  Sir Henry Curtis Bennett in his cross-examination of the pathologist tried to find an alternative to murder, such as a single, self-administered dose of arsenic on the part of a woman who had only recently been discharged from a mental institution. Try as he might, Sir Henry could not persuade Spilsbury to modify his views and the prosecution case strengthened when Webster and Willcox gave their evidence supporting his opinions. But Armstrong’s final undoing was self-inflicted when he went into the witness box. During a six-hour ordeal he answered over 2,000 questions but the crucial exchange was with the judge. Darling asked him about the packet found in his pocket which contained enough arsenic to kill a human being and which he explained was for killing dandelions. Pressed to explain his laborious technique for dosing individual dandelions, his lame excuse was that it seemed ‘the most convenient way’.

  In his summing-up, Mr Justice Darling drew the attention of the jury to Spilsbury’s evidence. He highlighted the pathologist’s manner as much as his testimony. ‘Do you remember Dr Spilsbury?’ he asked. ‘How he stood and the way in which he gave evidence? Did you ever see a witness who more thoroughly satisfied you that he was absolutely impartial, absolutely fair, absolutely indifferent as to whether his evidence told for the one side or the other?’ Where he had merely impressed before, Spilsbury now seemed to have been gifted with something close to infallibility. In any event, the weight of the evidence against Armstrong, though circumstantial, was overwhelmingly in favour of guilt. He was convicted of murder and hanged at Gloucester Prison on 31 May 1922. In December of that year, Spilsbury received a letter from Mr Bonar Law, the Prime Minister, telling him that he had been awarded a knighthood.

  Sir Bernard Spilsbury was
soon in the news again, this time in connection with a case of murder and dismemberment, the solution of which many believed to be his greatest technical achievement. The crime committed by Patrick Mahon was discovered by chance. Mahon, a handsome man with charming ways, found married life somewhat dull and elected for the role of the philanderer. Worried about his unexplained absences from home, Mrs Mahon decided to search his clothes for some item, a letter perhaps, which might give a clue as to his actions. She found a cloakroom ticket issued at London’s Waterloo station. A friend helped with her enquiries and they exchanged the ticket for a locked Gladstone bag. By prising open the ends of the bag, Mrs Mahon’s companion, a former railway policeman, found some bloodstained female clothing and a knife. He immediately went to the police.

  Mahon was picked up by the police when he appeared at Waterloo station to retrieve his bag. His explanation that the bag had been used for carrying dog meat immediately collapsed for it had already been established that the bloodstains were of human origin. Close interrogation of Mahon led the Sussex Police to a bungalow at Pevensey on the stretch of the Sussex coast known as The Crumbles. He had rented it in a false name at a charge of three and a half guineas a week. On 4 May 1924, Scotland Yard detectives accompanied by Spilsbury made an examination of the bungalow. What they found ranks as one of the most grisly murder cases in the history of British crime.

  The rooms of the bungalow contained perfectly ordinary furniture and other articles and, at first glance, nothing appeared to be an immediate cause for concern. The casual observer might have thought it unusual, though, to find a saucepan full of liquid in the hearth of the living room fireplace while Spilsbury’s trained eye took in a number of phenomena which, even at that early stage, began to tell him a story. There were grease splashes on the fender and bloodstains on the carpet. Worse was to come when various receptacles in that house of horrors were opened.