The coroner wrote down this statement and appeared to scan the preceding evidence before putting the next question. At length he looked up and turned to the witness.
“You say that death was due to poison injected by means of a syringe. Could that injection have been administered by deceased himself?”
“Yes. The site chosen was not a very convenient one for self-administration but it was well within reach, and self-administration would not have been difficult.”
“So far as you could judge from your examination, was there anything that suggested either that deceased had or had not administered the poison to himself?”
“In a medical sense and in terms of mere physical possibility, there was no evidence one way or the other.”
The coroner looked at the witness critically, and then remarked: “I seem to detect a note of doubt and reservation in your answer. Is that not so?”
“Perhaps it is,” the doctor replied. “But I am here as a medical witness and my evidence is properly restricted to what I know, or can reasonably infer from my examination of the body.”
“That is a highly correct attitude, doctor,” said the coroner with a faint smile, “but I don’t think we need be quite so particular. Have you any opinion, medical or other, as to whether deceased did or did not administer the poison to himself?”
“I have,” the witness replied promptly. “My opinion is that he did not administer the poison to himself.”
“That is perfectly definite,” said the coroner, “and I am sure the jury would like to hear your reasons for that opinion, as I should myself.”
“My opinion,” said Dr. Ripley, “is based upon the circumstances of the deceased’s death. Either he killed himself or was killed by some other person. There is no question of accident or misadventure. It is either suicide or homicide. If we consider the theory of suicide, we are confronted by two anomalies.
The first is the syringe. Why should deceased have used a hypodermic syringe? There is no reason at all. In the case of morphia there would be a reason; for the poison acts comparatively slowly, and large doses, if swallowed, tend to cause vomiting and so defeat the suicide’s ends. But cyanide poisons act very rapidly and tend to produce death before the stomach becomes disturbed. Suicide by means of potassium cyanide is not uncommon, but the usual method is to swallow one or more tablets; and this is quite efficient for the purpose. I have never before heard of a syringe being used for this poison.
“The conditions in the case of homicide are exactly the reverse. You can’t compel a man to swallow a tablet or even a liquid poison. But you can stick a hypodermic needle into him even if he has time to resist. And then the peculiarities of this particular syringe are adapted to homicide but not at all to suicide. The big veterinary needle would cause considerable pain in insertion. Its only advantage, its large bore, enabling the syringe to be discharged rapidly, would be of no benefit to the suicide; but it would be of vital importance to a murderer, who would want to get the business over as quickly as possible and make off.
The other anomaly is the place where the death occurred. Why should a suicide, having provided himself with the poison and the syringe, go forth to use them in a public thoroughfare when he could have done the business without disturbance in his own premises? And why, if he chose a public place, should he have selected a dark corner in an unfrequented passage? To a suicide, the solitude and obscurity of the place would offer no advantage. But to a murderer, those conditions would be essential; for he would want to get clear of the neighbourhood before the body was discovered. In short, the mode of death, the means used, and the place selected, were all unadapted to suicide, but perfectly adapted to homicide.”
As the doctor concluded his exposition, a murmur of approval arose from the jury, and the coroner, who also appeared to be deeply impressed, commented “Dr. Ripley has given us, in a very ingenious and cogent argument, his reasons for taking a particular view of this case, and I am sure that when we come to consider the evidence as a whole, we shall give them due weight. And now, as he is a busy man, I think we ought not to detain him any longer, unless any of you wish for further information.”
He looked enquiringly at the jury, and the foreman, in response to the implied invitation, signified that he would like to put a question.
“The doctor,” said he, “has referred to the solitude and obscurity of the place where the body was found. I should like to ask him if he has any personal acquaintance with that place.”
“Yes,” replied the witness, “I know it very well indeed. My practice is in the City of London and I am perfectly familiar with all the courts and alleys that form the short cuts from one main thoroughfare to others. As to St. Michael’s Alley, I think that hardly a week passes in which I do not pass through it at least once.”
“And if you pass through it,” said the foreman, “I suppose other people do.”
“Undoubtedly,” the witness agreed; “and in the day a fair number of people pass up and down the alley, although after business hours, when the City has emptied, it is very little frequented. But the point is that when I go up the alley I go straight up to Castle Court; I don’t turn off through the covered passage. And other people do the same, and for the same reason, which is that the covered passage also leads to Castle Court but by a less direct route. The only people who habitually use the covered passage are those who are employed in the office building that faces the churchyard. When they have gone, there are probably periods of half an hour or more during which not a soul passes through that passage.”
The foreman expressed himself as quite satisfied with the explanation and thanked the witness, who was then released to go about his business. When he had departed, the name of Alfred Stowell was called and a middle-aged, gentlemanly man came forward and took his place at the table. Mr. Stowell, having been sworn, gave his particulars, describing himself as the manager of The Cope Refrigerating Company, of Gracechurch Street, London.
“You have viewed the body of deceased,” said the coroner. “Did you recognise it as that of anyone whom you knew?”
“Yes. It is the body of Mr. Abel Webb, lately my assistant manager.”
“How long had he been with you?”
“Less than two months. He took up his duties with us on the twenty-second of last July.”
“Do you know how he was employed before he came to you?”
“He was in the service of the Commonwealth and Dominion Steamship Company and had been for about ten years. He had served as purser on several of their ships and it was on account of his experience in that capacity that my firm engaged him.”
“I don’t quite follow that. In what way is a purser’s experience of value to you?”
The ships of the Commonwealth Line are engaged in the frozen meat trade, and Mr. Webb had a rather special knowledge of refrigerating plant, as well as of the trade in general.”
“What sort of person was deceased—as to temperament, I mean? Did he strike you as a man who might possibly take his own life?”
“Most certainly not,” the witness replied. “He was of a singularly cheerful and happy disposition and very pleased with his new occupation after the long years at sea.”
“Have you any reason to suppose that he was in financial difficulties or in any way troubled about money?”
“No reason at all. Quite the contrary, in fact. I gathered from certain remarks that he let fall that he was in very comfortable circumstances. He was a bachelor without any dependants or responsibilities and had been steadily saving money all the time that he was at sea. That is what I understood from him. Of course, I have no first-hand knowledge of his affairs.”
“So far as you know, had deceased any enemies?”
“I am not aware that he had, and I have no reason to suppose that he had. In the excellent testimonial from his late employers he was described as an amiable and kindly man who was universally liked. I know no more than that.”
“Do you know
of anything that could throw light on the manner and circumstances of his death?”
“Nothing whatever,” was the reply; and as this seemed to conclude the evidence, the coroner asked the jury the usual question, and when the depositions had been signed the witness was released.
For some time after he had retired, the coroner sat scanning his notes with a manifestly dissatisfied air. At length he confided his difficulties to the jury.
“There is no denying,” said he, “that the evidence which we have heard has left this mysterious affair to a great extent unelucidated; and the question arises as to whether it is advisable to adjourn the inquiry and endeavour to obtain further evidence. On the whole, as the police have not succeeded in discovering any of deceased’s relatives, I am disposed to think that nothing would be gained by an adjournment. The further elucidation, if it is possible, seems to lie outside our province and within that of the police. Accordingly, I think it will be best for us to try to find a verdict on the evidence which is before us.
“It is unnecessary for me to recapitulate that evidence. It was all very clearly given and you have followed it closely and attentively. The question that you have to decide is: Who injected the poison? If deceased injected it himself; it is obviously a case of suicide. If you decide that it was injected by some other person you will have to find a verdict of wilful murder, since the injection could not have been given for any lawful purpose.
“The difficulty of deciding between suicide and murder is that there is no positive evidence of either. The medical evidence is to the effect that suicide was physically possible and that murder was physically possible. That is all that we have in the way of positive evidence. And in considering the medical evidence we must be careful to keep the facts separate from the opinions. The facts sworn to by the medical witness we can accept confidently; but the witness’s opinions, weighty though they are, can be accepted only so far as your judgment confirms them. It is you who have to find the verdict, and that verdict must be based on the evidence which you have heard and on nothing else. That, I think, is all I need say, except to remind you that you are not in the position of a jury at a criminal trial, who are bound to decide yes or no, guilty or not guilty. If, having considered the evidence, you find it insufficient to enable you to decide between the alternatives of murder and suicide, you are at liberty to say so.”
When the coroner had finished speaking, the members of the jury drew together and engaged in earnest and anxious consultation. It was a difficult question that they had to settle and they very properly took their time in debating it. At length the foreman announced that they had agreed on their verdict, and in reply to the coroner’s question stated “We find that deceased died from the effects of a poison injected into his body with a syringe, but whether the injection was administered by himself or by some other person there is no evidence to show.”
“Yes,” said the coroner,” I don’t see that you could have found otherwise. I shall record an open verdict and any further inquiries that may be necessary or possible will be conducted by the police.”
The proceedings having now come to an end, the audience and the witnesses rose and filed out into the street; and as I took my way back to the bank I reflected a little uncomfortably on what I had heard. It was a horrible affair and profoundly mysterious. If I had been a member of the jury my verdict would have been the same as that had been recorded. But it would not have expressed my inward convictions. The doctor’s convincing exposition, which still rang in my ears, had but confirmed in my mind an already formed belief.
The circumstance of the tragedy seemed to whisper ‘Murder’; and as I entered Ball Court (instinctively avoiding the neighbourhood of the fatal passage) and threaded the maze of alleys into George Yard and Lombard Street, I looked about me with a shuddering interest, speculating on the way that poor Webb had gone to his death and wondering whether the callous murderer—with the charged syringe ready in his pocket—had walked at his side or had waylaid him in the covered passage.
CHAPTER V
Clifford’s Inn
The events of the evening which I had spent with John Gillum, though they threw a good deal of light on his financial affairs, by no means diminished my interest in, or curiosity concerning, those affairs. On the contrary, having now clearly established the principal channel through which his money flowed—virtually into the gutter—I found myself the more concerned with the question whether that was the sole channel or whether he might perchance be dropping money in ways even less desirable than gambling. I have mentioned that at intervals of about a month he was accustomed to present a “self” cheque for a considerable amount, never less, though usually more, than five hundred pounds. It might be that this represented merely “the sinews of war” for the month’s gambling. But to my eye it looked like something different, something suggesting a definite periodic payment; and this view was strengthened by the fact that other drafts, often for large sums, were presented at irregular intervals. These, from their irregularity in time and amount, seemed much more likely to represent his gaming losses.
The periodic cheque was usually drawn about the fourteenth day of the month (rather suggesting a payment on the fifteenth) and it was Gillum’s custom to notify the bank a day in advance of the amount of cash that he intended to withdraw. Accordingly, as the day drew near, I awaited the notification with some expectancy; and sure enough, on the morning of the thirteenth—two days after the inquest—it was delivered at the bank and shown to me by the manager, as Gillum usually elected to transact his business with me. This time the, amount was six hundred and fifty pounds; and as Gillum had a preference for notes that had been in circulation, some sorting out of the stock was necessary.
On the morning of the fourteenth, soon after the hank had opened, he made his appearance, and coming straight over to my “pitch,” laid his cheque on the counter.
“I’m afraid I’m the bane of your life, Mortimer,” said he, “with my big cash drafts. You ought to have a note-counting machine—turn a handle, shoot ’em out by the dozen and show the number on a dial.”
“It would be a convenience,” I admitted,” though I doubt whether a court of law would accept the reading of the machine as evidence. But it is no great trouble to count a few hundred notes, and at any rate, it is what I am here for.”
I brought out the bundles of notes that I had pre pared in readiness for the payment and having re-counted them, passed the bundles across to him.
“You had better check them,” said I as he picked them up and stuffed them into his pocket.
“No need,” he replied. “I’ll take them as read. I’m not equal to your lightning manipulation, and if we differed I should be sure to be wrong.”
He paused to distribute the seven bundles more evenly and then, as there were no customers waiting at the moment, lingered to gossip. “I hope,” said he, “you were none the worse for our little dissipation.”
“Thank you, no,” I replied. “A little sleepy the next morning, but I am quite convalescent now.”
“Good,” said he. “We must have another outing soon, not quite so boisterous. We might go and hear some music.”
“That is quite a good idea,” said I, “and it reminds me that an opportunity presents itself this very day. Do you care for organ music?”
“I like it in church,” he replied; “not so much in a concert hall. The appropriate atmosphere seems to be lacking.”
“Then,” said I, “perhaps you would like to come with me this evening to St. Peter’s, Cornhill. There is to be an organ recital from six to seven by Dr. Dyer. I am going, and if you can manage it, I can promise you a musical treat.”
He considered for a few moments and then replied: “It sounds rather alluring and I’ve got the evening free. So I accept subject to conditions; which are that after the recital you come along to my chambers and join me in a little rough bachelor dinner. I can’t do you in Giamborini’s style but you won’t starve. Wh
en we have fed, we can either smoke a pipe and yarn or go out somewhere. What do you say?”
I accepted promptly, for the proposed entertainment was much more to my taste than a restaurant dinner; and when we had made the necessary arrangements he took his leave and I reverted to my duties.
At half-past five he reappeared at the bank and found me waiting outside, and we strolled together up Gracechurch Street, looking in at Leadenhall Market on our way, and took our seats in the church at five minutes to the hour. The fame of the organist had drawn a surprisingly large number of men and women to the recital, and it was evident by the instant hush that fell as soon as the music began that Dr. Dyer had a genuinely appreciative audience.
And I was interested, and a little surprised, to note that Gillum not only enjoyed but—as I gathered ii ut his whispered comments in the intervals—followed the rather austere and technical works that were played with manifest sympathy and understanding. One would hardly have associated the gambling den and the racecourse with a refined taste for music. But Gillum was a rather queer mixture in many respects.
When the recital came to an end, we set forth on foot to stretch our legs and sharpen our appetites with the walk of a little over a mile from Cornhill to Clifford’s Inn, beguiling the short journey with a discussion of the music that we had been listening to, and comments on objects of interest that we observed by the way. In Fleet Street Gillum gave me another mild surprise by halting me opposite Anderton’s Hotel and bidding me note the fine silhouette that St. Dunstan’s Church and the Law Courst made against the sunset sky.
“I always stop here to look at the view,” said he, “and although the shapes are always the same, the picture is different every time I see it. There is a lot of fine scenery of a kind in the streets of London.”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 193
