Family Matters

by Anthony Rolls

  Down the right side of the court (looking towards the street door) was a row of about sixteen chairs to accommodate the jury.

  Along the opposite side were more chairs, intended for relatives of the deceased, witnesses (after they had been heard), and other privileged people. The number of these chairs varied according to the nature of the inquest.

  The centre of the court was occupied by two large tables with plenty of space between them. All the leading people in the case—counsel and experts—were placed at these tables, with all their papers and paraphernalia before them. A special table, guarded by a policeman, was provided for exhibits.

  Between the central space and the public pen were long deal benches for less important folk, pressmen, court attendants and so forth.

  There were three windows in the court: one in the same wall as the street door; one behind the jurymen, looking out on the Corporation’s garage; and one in the opposite wall, permitting a distant view of the gas-works.

  As for the walls of this ghastly chamber, they were painted a thick anchovy-paste red, a colour which fell heavily upon the ambient gloom, choking the very daylight and adding to the general impression of tawdry horror.

  This filthy room, on the morning of the 17th of July, was full of people. Seated upon his mournful eminence was Mr. Hubert Mills, the coroner. Below him, at the head of one of the tables, was Mr. Keynes Yelford, the Assistant Director of Prosecutions, representing the police. Mr. Yelford had a tough, supercilious face and a harsh manner. At the same table, on the right of Mr. Yelford and facing the court, was Mr. Folliard Ellwright, a local solicitor, watching the proceedings on behalf of Doctor Bagge. Next to Mr. Ellwright was Mr. David Williams, engaged by Uncle Richard on behalf of Mrs. Kewdingham.

  These were important men, but everyone knew that the result of the inquest would depend upon the little group seated at the other table, almost exactly in the middle of the court. There was the great Pulverbatch, smiling in his saintly way at nothing in particular; and there was the burly form of Doctor Paul Dinham, with his enormous rough head and his disorderly moustache. There was also a tall, old gentleman with tidy white hair and a most elegant frock coat—it was Colonel Wilbert Heagh-Spoffer (I.M.S.), C.B., C.M.G., the authority on oriental poisons.

  And there were the jurymen, owlish and imperturbable, in whose dull faces you would have looked in vain for the signs of intelligence. Except, perhaps, in the case of Mr. John Quatt, who owned seven public houses; and possibly in the case of Mr. Bimble, tobacconist.

  Looking across towards the jury were the privileged people on the other side. These were members of the family, including Uncle Richard and several cousins, and there were also a number of Shufflecester worthies who were acquainted with the coroner. Chairs were reserved for witnesses who were to remain in court after giving their evidence.

  A mixed lot of pressmen and of hangers-on occupied the benches, and behind them, on the other side of the barrier, at least 120 members of the public were tightly compressed. Policemen were stationed by the doors, by the coroner’s platform and by the witness-box. Inspector Miles, like a monument of civic dignity, was planted immediately below the coroner, facing the court.

  The witnesses were now waiting in their grim, dingy room, not greatly cheered by the distant view of the gas-works, and their conversation was of a scrappy, disjointed nature. Chief among these were Dr. Bagge, old Kewdingham, Phoebe Kewdingham, Nurse Cundle, Martha Tuke, and Mr. John Harrigall: the others will be mentioned in due course. All of them were trying to seem indifferent. The nurse alone was perfectly unemotional and was enjoying her temporary importance. Doctor Bagge looked about him with a more than ordinary number of blue flashes, but he said very little. Father Kewdingham mumbled some carefully selected quotations, of which no one took the least notice. Phoebe was cool, inscrutable; she avoided speaking to John, in a manner which, coupled with her strange behaviour in London during the previous few weeks, made him feel extremely uncomfortable. As for John, he kept moving about from one part of the room to another, studying the print of Queen Caroline’s trial which hung over the fire-place, or reading the notices on the wall. They were all the time under the eye of a discreet though not unfriendly policeman who stood by the door leading to the court.

  Bertha Kewdingham was not present. Acting on the best legal advice, she had chosen to be represented by her solicitor, Mr. David Williams.

  2

  At half-past ten, after the usual formalities, the coroner addressed the jury:

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I am about to place before you evidence of a peculiar nature, requiring your close attention. After we have listened to this evidence I shall set before you the main features of the case, as I perceive them, and you will then consider your verdict. Here I will only remind you that you will be called on to decide one thing, and one thing only—the manner in which Robert Arthur Kewdingham met his death. I propose to call, in the first place, Sergeant William Fawley, who will speak as to the taking of a blue flask and a bottle, and afterwards a number of sealed jars, and certain packages, to London, handing them over to the Home Office analyst, Professor Pulverbatch, at St. Audrey’s Hospital, and getting a receipt for them. Then, in order that he may have an opportunity for hearing the medical evidence, I shall call Doctor Wilson Bagge, the physician who attended the deceased. After that, you will have the privilege of hearing three eminent authorities: Professor Quintin Pulverbatch, who has just been mentioned; Doctor Paul Dinham, pathologist to the Home Office; and Colonel Wilbert Vauban Heagh-Spoffer, formerly of the Indian Medical Service. The evidence of a gentleman who saw the deceased within a few hours of his death, and the evidence of the nurse who was in attendance, will also be taken. Other witnesses have been warned to appear, including Mr. Robert Henry Kewdingham, the father of the deceased. I am told that all these people are now in the waiting-room, and I hope it will not be necessary to adjourn the inquest.”

  After the formal police evidence, Doctor Bagge was called.

  He entered the witness-box, trim, correct, responsible. Looking at the coroner, he bowed, and the coroner replied with a friendly jerk of the head: it was their custom on these occasions.

  Then came the first surprise.

  “Before taking your evidence, Doctor Bagge, there is a certain matter to be considered. Inspector Miles, will you show Doctor Bagge exhibit number one.”

  The inspector produced from a package a large medicine-bottle. Inside the bottle there was a pink mixture with a heavy sediment.

  “That bottle comes from your dispensary, Doctor Bagge, and that is your writing on the label?”

  Very slowly, very deliberately, the doctor turned the bottle in his hands. He was evidently prepared for this.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “It contains the medicine prepared by you for Mr. Robert Arthur Kewdingham?”

  “I have no idea what it contains now. When I last saw it, it contained medicine for Mr. Kewdingham.”

  Mr. Ellwright, counsel for Doctor Bagge, jumped up and addressed the coroner:

  “This is a very exceptional procedure. May I ask, sir, whether that bottle was removed by the police, and, if so, why?”

  “It was not removed by the police. I shall call further evidence regarding it. For the present it is enough that Doctor Bagge recognises the bottle as one which contained medicine for Mr. Kewdingham.”

  “I do not know why you are producing that bottle, sir, or what it has to do with your enquiry,” Mr. Ellwright said, appearing to be extremely angry, “but if it was not removed from Mr. Kewdingham’s house by the police it would appear to me to have no significance whatever.”

  “Be so good as to wait for a moment, Mr. Ellwright. Inspector, will you now hand the bottle to Professor Pulverbatch? Thank you. If I am not mistaken, professor, you have seen that bottle before?”

  “Eh, surely!” replied the professor. “I brought
it with me from London this morning.”

  Mr. Ellwright shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Doctor Bagge was quite unconcerned; he flicked a little dust off the sleeve of his neat grey coat.

  Professor Pulverbatch explained that he had originally received the bottle from the police, and that he was instructed to make an analysis of the contents. He had done so, and had found an extraordinarily high percentage of aluminium, together with morphinae hydrochloridum and other drugs of an astringent nature. In reply to a question conveyed from Doctor Bagge to Mr. Ellwright, the professor gave the exact composition of the medicine.

  The coroner: “Does that conform to your prescription, Doctor Bagge?”

  The witness (in a clear, steady voice): “Most decidedly not. I cannot question the analysis of so eminent a chemist as Professor Pulverbatch, but I may say with confidence that no doctor in his senses would ever make up such a prescription. The amount of alum chlorate found in the analysis is about five times as great as the amount which I used in preparing the medicine for Mr. Kewdingham.”

  Mr. Keynes Yelford (for the police): “How do you account for that, Doctor Bagge?”

  The witness (with a smile): “I don’t account for it. Either the stuff now in the bottle is not my medicine at all, or else the bottle was never shaken by the patient, in which case the chlorate would remain at the bottom and would there form a thick deposit, such as you actually see in the bottle at present. But even in the latter case it would be almost impossible to explain the result obtained by the analysis.”

  Questioned further by Mr. Keynes Yelford, the doctor said that he did not agree that aluminium salts, in any quantity, were poisonous; he accepted the views of Schlangenhausen and of Aldenstein, though he was not unaware of the results obtained on rabbits by Sychoff at Lausanne. (Doctor Paul Dinham smiled appreciatively.) Yes; his prescription book could be produced if they cared to send for it; he could easily explain to any of the court officials where it was to be found.

  Mr. Ellwright (to the coroner): “May I be allowed to ask, sir, what we are trying to prove? I do not quite follow this enquiry. I object very strongly to these questions being put to my client, nor do I see in what way they can be of the slightest use. I am in the dark, and I should be very much obliged if you, or any of these gentlemen, would enlighten me.”

  Mr. Keynes Yelford: “I am only too willing to help my learned friend to the best of my ability. I will ask Professor Pulverbatch to tell us whether, if the mixture now contained in this bottle had been taken by Mr. Kewdingham, or by anyone else, it was likely to have a harmful effect.”

  Professor Pulverbatch: “Eh, well! I think it would produce immediate vomiting. If taken regularly, there would, of course, be certain consequences.”

  Mr. Keynes Yelford: “Possibly fatal consequences?”

  Professor Pulverbatch: “That would all depend…No; I should not like to say so.”

  Mr. Ellwright (to the coroner): “Sir, this is really intolerable. I never heard of such a thing in my life. A scandalous, a grossly improper suggestion has now been made in the hearing of the public. It is imperative that I should ask a question without delay.” (To Professor Pulverbatch): “Did you, sir, find anything attributable in any way to the action of this, or of a similar medicine, in your examination of the organs which were submitted to you?”

  Professor Pulverbatch: “No; I found no change or injury which could be attributed to such a medicine. That is what you want to know, is it not?”

  Mr. Ellwright: “You did not find a trace of this medicine?”

  Professor Pulverbatch: “A barely perceptible trace in the lower intestinal passages.”

  Mr. Ellwright: “Now please tell us definitely whether you attached any importance to this?”

  Professor Pulverbatch: “None whatever.”

  Mr. Ellwright (to the coroner, with indignation): “Now, sir, may I ask why we have wasted so much time in discussing a matter to which the expert himself attaches no importance? I wish to claim—”

  The coroner: “Pray be calm, Mr. Ellwright. You will see, before the enquiry is over, that we had a very good reason for introducing this matter. We may now proceed. I will request Doctor Bagge to give his evidence in regard to the general health of the deceased, and then in regard to the particular circumstances of the death.”

  While Mr. Ellwright blew a fierce breath over his papers, Doctor Bagge began to give his evidence in a plain, precise, unhesitating manner. He was immensely relieved, though at the same time extremely puzzled. When he came to the death of Mr. Kewdingham, he said that he had then formed a definite opinion as to the causes, but he now believed that he might have been mistaken. He described his investigation of the medicine-cupboard, the astonishing discovery of many dangerous drugs and of the blue phial.

  By the coroner: “Gentlemen of the jury, it is necessary for me to inform you that the contents of this cupboard have been examined by the police, and you will hear more about them presently.”

  The witness proceeded to identify the blue phial (exhibit number seven) and the coroner read aloud the paper which had been wrapped round it. This produced a great sensation in the court.

  Mr. Keynes Yelford (to the witness): “After this discovery, you recalled certain symptoms—dilation of the pupils, for example—which led you to suspect the action of a mydriatic alkaloid, such as belladonna?”

  The witness: “Yes.”

  Mr. Keynes Yelford: “But at the time of the death you were quite satisfied with your diagnosis?” The witness (tartly): “Of course.”

  Mr. Keynes Yelford: “Though your search in the medicine-cupboard was due to a certain anxiety?”

  The witness: “No. A certain curiosity.”

  The general impression made by the doctor’s evidence was entirely satisfactory, though everyone was puzzled by the introduction of the pink mixture. Yet no one could have been more puzzled than the doctor himself was by the answers of Professor Pulverbatch. What the devil! Only a barely perceptible trace of the chlorate? Lucky in the circumstances, no doubt; but how could you account for it? He took his place among the privileged people, waiting to hear Dinham and Pulverbatch, and hoping that he would be enlightened.

  3

  There was a ghoulish excitement among the reporters, a fluttering and rustling and shuffling of papers, a twitching of elbows and a scraping of boots, a mumbling and movement among the public (restrained by a severe glance from the coroner), a general adjustment and expectancy as Doctor Paul Dinham was called.

  Doctor Paul described in detail the heart and the visceral organs of poor Kewdingham. There was no doubt as to the disease of the heart and the kidneys. He noted a venous congestion which indicated the condition known as asphyxia. In one place he had observed a slight blackening of the mucous membrane, due, it was discovered later, to a minute deposit of lead sulphide. (On hearing this, Doctor Bagge could not refrain from making an audible clucking sound, though he quickly controlled himself.) But, said the eminent pathologist, the most important discovery was made in the stomach. “Here,” he said, “I was at once struck by a bright red arborescent extravasation and by the emphysematous condition of the membrane.”

  Mr. Keynes Yelford: “Naturally, when you saw that, you were led to a certain conclusion?”

  Then came a bombshell.

  “Yes,” said Dr. Paul, speaking very deliberately, “I came to the conclusion that I was dealing with a typical case of acute poisoning by arsenic.”

  Chapter XIV

  1

  No sooner had the word “arsenic” fallen from the lips of Doctor Dinham than a reaction of surprise, curiosity and horror was evident throughout the entire court. Clearly Doctor Bagge had not expected to hear anything of the kind. He sat bolt upright in his chair, petrified with amazement. Uncle Richard, and all the Kewdingham relatives, fairly gasped. A gleam of savage delight passed over the faces of the r
eporters. The public swayed and murmured. Only the jury, conscious of their superb isolation, remained owlish and imperturbable.

  Mr. Keynes Yelford paused for a moment, allowing the emotion to subside. Then he continued his examination:

  “You have seen many similar cases?”

  “Yes, hundreds of cases.”

  The coroner: “I will now call Professor Pulverbatch, and afterwards Colonel Heagh-Spoffer. These gentlemen are anxious to return to London this evening if possible, and I hope there will be no reason for detaining them.”

  The eminent professor was examined in a masterly way by Mr. Keynes Yelford. He smiled benevolently upon the court, and gave his evidence in a soft though audible voice, with many whistlings and ejaculations. First of all, he said, the post-mortem appearances had justified him in testing the various organs for the presence of arsenic, and he had found it in all of them. He gave the details of his analysis, and showed that he had obtained, in all, 2.079 grains of arsenic. A dose of at least 4 grains must have been swallowed by Mr. Kewdingham within a few hours of his death. Two grains, in ordinary circumstances, would constitute a fatal dose. Having revealed these sensational facts, the professor was cross-examined by Mr. David Williams, on behalf of Mrs. Kewdingham. Mr. Williams had considerable knowledge of arsenical poisoning, and he now observed that none of the ordinary symptoms had been recorded in the early stages of the fatal illness. To this the professor replied that in exceptional cases, which were known as “nervous cases”, the well-known symptoms did not occur.

  Having established the presence of arsenic, said Pulverbatch, he had then carried out a very delicate and a very prolonged experiment, having for its object the detection of a certain vegetable alkaloid. This experiment was known as the Hauser-Moroni test, and it required, he might be allowed to say, very considerable skill in the use of microscopic apparatus. Eh, well!…