Mr. Keynes Yelford: “Will you tell us why you should have tested for this particular alkaloid?”
The witness: “A blue phial with a mounting of silver filigree had been handed to me in connection with this case—”
The coroner: “It is exhibit number seven, produced when Doctor Bagge was giving his evidence. Inspector, will you now show this exhibit to Professor Pulverbatch, so that he may identify it? The jury had better see it as well.”
The witness (resuming his evidence after the phial had been identified): “In this phial, which is of Indian origin, I found a powerful preparation of the alkaloids belonging to what we call the atropine group—in this instance, the alkaloids of stramonium. My colleague, Colonel Heagh-Spoffer, will presently describe to you the use—I should, of course, say the former use—of such poisons among the upper classes in India. Daturine is a term occasionally employed. The preparation in that phial is one of the most concentrated forms of poison which I have ever come across; it is a deadly preparation.” (The jury, after nervously examining the phial, return it quickly to the inspector.)
Mr. Keynes Yelford: “How much would be sufficient to cause death?”
The witness: “About three drops. Death would certainly take place within six hours of swallowing such a dose.”
Mr. Keynes Yelford: “Did you find any trace of this poison in the organs taken from the body of Mr. Kewdingham?”
Speaking clearly and emphatically, the witness replied: “I did.”
“Now, professor,” said Mr. Yelford, aware of the intense excitement in the court and uttering his words in the gravest and most impressive manner, “I want you to say whether you found the traces of a fatal dose of this poison.”
“Certainly I did. At least half a teaspoonful had been taken.”
In the course of his examination by Mr. Yelford, the professor said that the symptoms noted by Doctor Bagge, and others, which, he understood, would be described by another witness, were highly characteristic of poisoning by atropine.
Mr. David Williams: “And by no means characteristic of poisoning by arsenic?”
The witness: “That is so.”
Mr. Keynes Yelford: “It amounts to this—he had taken a fatal dose of arsenic and he had also taken a fatal dose of atropine?”
The witness: “Precisely.”
Mr. David Williams: “But you cannot, in such a case, assign any priority of action in the matter of causing death?”
The witness: “That is quite true. It is, if I may say so, as if a man had been stabbed through the heart and shot through the brain at the same moment.”
Mr. Keynes Yelford: “Or as if a man had been murdered at the very moment of committing suicide?”
Mr. David Williams: “I take exception to that question.”
Mr. Keynes Yelford: “It is only by way of illustration, for the benefit of the jury.”
After some further legal and medical argument, the coroner called an unexpected witness. This was a local chemist, Mr. Brown, who said that he had sold a half-gallon tin of Dragon Weed-killer to Mr. Kewdingham personally on the 3rd of March. This weed-killer contained a high proportion of arsenic in a liquid form. Mr. Kewdingham had, of course, signed the poison-book, which was produced in court.
Mr. David Williams: “Have the police succeeded in tracing this particular tin?”
The coroner: “No, sir, they have not.”
Proceeding with his enquiry, the coroner now called Mr. Walter Simpson, a technical chemist on the staff of the firm which made the Dragon Weed-killer. This killer, said Mr. Simpson, contained 38 per cent, of arsenious oxide combined with soda. It was a liquid, coloured a vivid green by means of an aniline dye. Two drops of the killer would contain half a grain of arsenic. A tin of Dragon Weed-killer was now produced in court, with the seal unbroken, and identified by Mr. Simpson as the standard form in which half-gallons were sold to the public. Amidst intense excitement a quantity of bright green fluid was poured from this tin into a white glass tumbler, inspected by the jury.
“Now, Mr. Simpson,” said the coroner, “if this fluid were to be poured into a green wineglass, it would be practically invisible, would it not?”
Mr. Simpson said he thought that would probably be the case.
The coroner: “I am now going to make a little experiment which is not as childish as it may at first appear. Exhibit number two consists of half a dozen wineglasses taken from Mr. Kewdingham’s house on my instructions—these glasses, as we shall presently see, were used for the first time at the dinner immediately preceding Mr. Kewdingham’s fatal illness. Thank you, inspector. They are green glasses, two of them darker than the others. I shall now ask a member of the jury to pour about two teaspoonfuls of the weed-killer into each of two glasses—one of the dark ones and one of the lighter ones. We shall then observe the result.”
There was a kind of low buzzing in the public enclosure, and the coroner sternly raised a hand.
An imperturbable juryman poured some of the lovely viridian fluid into each of the glasses: this fluid, as the coroner had foreseen, was almost invisible unless the glass was held up to the light. No one could easily have detected a small amount of the fluid in the bottom of one of the glasses, if he did not take the glass in his hand and examine it closely.
The coroner (to Mr. Simpson): “A teaspoonful of the killer would constitute a fatal dose?”
The witness: “Yes, sir. Very much less would constitute a fatal dose—about eight or nine drops would be sufficient.”
Then, after this curious demonstration, a wine-merchant was called, who deposed to having sold to Mrs. Kewdingham, on the 27th of April, a bottle of burgundy. She had ordered burgundy on previous occasions, he said, in answer to cross-examination by Mr. David Williams, but never before had she ordered a vintage wine such as Pommard.
Nurse Cundle briefly gave her purely medical evidence, and then came the turn of old father Kewdingham.
2
Poor old Kewdingham was the most uneasy of the witnesses, feeling at once that he was being regarded with hostility or contempt. Uncle Richard looked at him grimly: Robert, he thought, was always a fool.
The coroner spoke to him in a dry, caustic manner, putting the questions with a snap and a rap which plainly revealed his attitude. When it came to the affair of the medicine-bottle there was a quite perceptible stirring of animosity in the court.
“Now, Mr. Kewdingham,” said the coroner, “I shall not ask you why you did such an extraordinary thing. We have just been told that the mixture in the bottle had nothing whatever to do with your son’s death, and the episode has therefore no relevance in the present enquiry. Your action, whatever its motive, was of a sort likely to give rise to the most unworthy and the most unfounded suspicions, and I think it my duty to you all to say that if there were any suspicions they have now been completely and finally dispelled.”
A swish of muffled approbation in the court, a furtive clapping of hands, a tapping of sticks or boots. Plainly, Bagge was becoming the hero of the inquest, rising to the climax of his popularity.
The coroner: “Order! If there is any more of this, I shall clear the court.” (To the public, sternly): “Please remember where you are.”
Turning again to the unhappy witness, the coroner asked him various questions in regard to what had happened on the night of the twenty-seventh.
Mr. Kewdingham, realising that he had made a hideous mistake, and that he now appeared to the court as a nasty-minded old villain, gave incoherent, rambling answers, and was only too glad when he was allowed to totter from the box, after being tortured by the coroner, Mr. Yelford, Mr. Ellwright and Mr. Williams in succession, and was free to escape, a humiliated and shaken man, from that awful building. Indeed, there were several ignorant people who now suspected him of the murder of his son.
Evidence was taken from Mr. Hickey, the antiqu
e dealer, in regard to the sale of the green glasses to Mrs. Kewdingham; and he was followed by Mr. John Harrigall.
John, as usual, was very well dressed and made a good impression on the public, but he soon noticed an unaccountable harshness in the demeanour of the coroner and of the counsel. What he did not observe was an involuntary movement of surprise on the part of one of the jurymen. He was closely questioned by the coroner and sharply cross-examined by Mr. David Williams. When did he arrive at Wellington Avenue on the 27th? Who was there? Did he notice anything unusual in the manner or appearance of Mr. Kewdingham? When did he go out to post his letter? When did he go to the bathroom? Did Mr. Kewdingham go to the bathroom? Yes?—And how long was he there? John could not remember.
Mr. David Williams: “Do try to think, Mr. Harrigall. It is a point of great importance. Can you not give us an idea? Five minutes?—Ten minutes?”
“About ten minutes, to the best of my recollection.”
“And at that time Mrs. Kewdingham was in the kitchen?”
“As far as I know. I was in the drawing-room, but I could hear someone in the kitchen.”
“Now, Mr. Harrigall, do try to recollect. When you were in the bathroom, did you notice anything on the porcelain slab over the wash-basin?”
“I think there were some bottles there, and a toothbrush holder, and a glass of some sort—a tumbler.”
He described, though with due restraint, the peculiar manner and the haggard aspect of Mr. Kewdingham, which he had noticed as soon as he arrived. He gave an account of the dinner and of what happened afterwards. His evidence was given in a straightforward manner, and the coroner evidently thought better of him before the end of it.
The evidence of Martha Tuke was awaited with great interest. When she stood in the witness-box she looked half ashamed of herself and was rather confused. Her information was extracted with subtlety and with extraordinary tact by the coroner, who had a large experience of such witnesses. He made it clear that the domestic life of the Kewdinghams had not been altogether happy.
Coming to the night of the 27th Martha told them how she saw that Mrs. Kewdingham had washed the new green glasses, though she had never previously washed up any of the dinner things. At length she came to the handing over of the letter to Phoebe. Here there was a great deal of fencing between counsel and coroner. It was insisted upon by Mr. David Williams that the name of the person to whom this letter was addressed ought not to be made public. This was agreed to, in spite of the opposition of Mr. Keynes Yelford. It was merely stated that the letter was addressed to “a certain gentleman”. Asked why she had taken this action in regard to the letter, Martha replied that she had been shocked to observe various “goings-on” between Mrs. Kewdingham and “the gentleman”. At this point Mr. David Williams energetically intervened, but the coroner had got what he wanted. The effect of all this upon John, who now saw daylight, may be imagined. He could understand the strange coldness of his cousin Phoebe. He could understand, for the first time, the extreme peril of the situation. With a mind full of emerging horrors he listened to Martha, who said that she had never seen any weed-killer used in the garden, though she did remember the arrival of a half-gallon tin of Dragon. Cross-examined by Mr. Williams, she stated that she had often seen Mr. Kewdingham taking white powders and other medicines. Mr. Yelford then asked her why she had given notice and left the house on the day after the funeral. Before she could reply, Mr. Williams rose with a vehement protest, and the coroner ruled that the question need not be answered. She then admitted to Mr. Williams that she had been with the Kewdinghams for three years, and had nothing whatever to complain of as far as they were concerned.
Phoebe then entered the witness-box.
Questioned about the home life of the Kewdinghams, she was extremely reticent. Her manner was cool and steady, her replies were brief and well considered. She told them how Martha had brought her the letter, and how she had taken the letter, unopened, to the Chief Constable’s office, where, after consultation, the letter had been opened and read in her presence and retained by the police. Warned that she was not to divulge the name of the person to whom the letter was addressed, she was asked whether she could identify the writing; and she replied that it was unquestionably written by her sister-in-law, Mrs. Bertha Kewdingham, with whose writing she was familiar. The coroner then stated that copies of this letter had been made by the police, and that he would now hand a copy, together with the original letter, to the witness, in order that she might verify them. This was accordingly done.
The coroner: “As this is a matter of some importance, I shall now order six copies of the letter to be distributed among the jurymen, to be read by them and then returned to me. These copies do not contain the name of the person to whom the letter is addressed.”
Mr. David Williams objected, saying that he had no copy of the letter, and that such a procedure was highly improper for many reasons, especially as Mrs. Kewdingham was not present. To this the coroner replied that he alone was responsible for his procedure, that he would supply Mr. Williams with a copy, and that the police had compared the handwriting of the original with many other specimens, leaving no room for doubt. Copies were, therefore, handed to the jurymen, who stolidly read them and returned them to the coroner. After she had answered a few more questions, Phoebe left the witness-box.
It was now a quarter to two. The coroner intimated that there would be a brief adjournment for lunch, and that he would address the jury when the court reassembled at half-past two precisely.
Chapter XV
1
When the court was reopened at half-past two, it was quite evident that the public pen was grossly overcrowded. A soft, hot mass of humanity, as much female as male, was protruding over the polished rail of the barrier and there was a young man sitting on the top of the rusty stove. The coroner looked about him angrily.
“Inspector! Who has admitted all these people? Remove twenty of those nearest the door at once.”
With great difficulty the door was opened, and a score or so of indignant citizens were hustled into the street.
It was observed that Doctor Bagge was not present, and that the family was only represented by John Harrigall, Phoebe, and Uncle Richard. Professor Pulverbatch and Doctor Dinham were at their table, but Colonel Heagh-Spoffer had returned to London. No one anticipated that the final proceedings would last for more than an hour, and the experts were staying in case the jury had any questions for them.
The afternoon was dull and sultry. An occasional stutter of engines and rumbling of heavy traffic could be heard from the Corporation garage. Everyone felt the strain of a higher tension, of a growing excitability. The pressmen, glistening and flushed after long draughts of beer at the Blue Swan, flicked about their papers and sharpened their pencils with less restraint. A more audible chuffering and whispering among the public marked an increase of morbid vigilance. Even on the stolid, self-important faces of the jury there was a glimmer of anticipation: they would soon be called on to play their part.
The coroner himself was obviously not unmoved. He knew that he had already been severely criticised. He swabbed his face with a blue silk handkerchief, and his manner with inferiors was a trifle brusque. Shortly after taking his place he had a whispered conversation with Mr. Keynes Yelford, of which only the last words were audible to the pressmen: “I never knew anything like it.”
Mr. David Williams and Mr. Ellwright came into the court together, both of them looking very sharp and satisfied. Keynes Yelford was evidently bored: he sat at the table with an air of supercilious resignation, as though he was composing himself to listen to a sermon in a rural church, only keeping awake for the sake of appearances.
Colonel Drayford sat in the front row of the privileged people, twirling his long orange moustache. His lieutenant, Inspector Miles, again stood monumentally in his old position.
The coroner rapped sharply
on the edge of his desk.
“Silence in the court, if you please!”
With a stern, searching eye he looked in turn at the tables in front of him, at the privileged people, at the sweltering, congested mass of the public, at the pressmen, and finally at the jury. He looked at each juryman separately, then he sighed, and then, for the second time, he rapped on the desk.
“Gentlemen of the jury, you do not need any particular account of the persons concerned in this case.
“It has transpired, in the course of this enquiry, that Mr. Robert Arthur Kewdingham was not exactly what you would call an ordinary man. I do not want to put ideas into your heads—such an attempt would be highly improper—but I do want to remind you that you have heard evidence which shows that Mr. Kewdingham was affected mentally as a result of illness. He suffered from acute depression, and I think it is clear that his moods of depression were more frequent and more intense towards the end. On this point we have had the evidence of a highly respected medical man, Doctor Wilson Bagge, who attended Mr. Kewdingham regularly for many years. We have no direct evidence of suicidal intention, but I have a sworn statement in regard to a conversation which took place on Sunday the 1st of April, between Mr. Kewdingham and his aunt and cousin, Mrs. Bella and Miss Ethel Poundle-Quainton, resident in Shufflecester. I have not thought it necessary to subject these ladies to the ordeal of appearing in court. They have accordingly made a statement in the presence of a Justice of the Peace, Mr. Howard Clayborn, which I now propose to read to you.”
Mr. Keynes Yelford (waking up): “May I ask, sir, if we are to regard this as evidence?”
The coroner: “It is information of an evidential nature.”
Mr. Keynes Yelford (smiling): “Oh, I see! That is rather a subtle distinction, is it not?”
Family Matters Page 20
