A Case of Doubtful Death

by Linda Stratmann

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Blackballed. Not to be let in again.’

  ‘Inspector Sharrock told me he had suffered some bruising. Perhaps that was as a result of his being ejected from the club?’

  Chas and Barstie looked at each other.

  Frances folded her arms and gave them a firm stare. ‘Now then gentlemen, I think you know something.’

  ‘Oh, I would hesitate to say anything that might create difficulties for someone who I believe to be a person of admirable character,’ said Barstie.

  ‘Not to mention a useful source of business,’ added Chas.

  ‘Mr Horton’s bruises were not suffered as a result of any criminal action, we can assure you of that,’ said Barstie. ‘It was more a matter of gentlemanly recreation.’

  Frances recalled something. ‘I believe that Mr Horton had accused Professor Pounder of assaulting him, but there was no evidence he had ever been to the academy.’

  Chas and Barstie looked at each other again.

  ‘Is Professor Pounder a member of the Piccadilly Club?’ she asked.

  ‘Not precisely,’ said Barstie, ‘but he is known to the gentlemen there and is sometimes a guest.’

  ‘Are you saying that he has been involved in fighting there?’

  ‘The Professor would never indulge in fistic matters outside of the ring,’ said Chas.

  Frances bethought herself of some of the things that had been happening at the Monmouth Club, the manager of which was about to take the Chronicle to court for libel.

  ‘Has Professor Pounder been running an illegal boxing and gambling club in the Piccadilly?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh no, no, nothing of the sort!’ exclaimed Chas, quickly.

  ‘Not at all!’ said Barstie.

  ‘Well then, what is he doing?’

  ‘He gives free demonstrations of self-defence,’ said Barstie. ‘All quite legal and above board. No prize fights. He wouldn’t think of it.’

  ‘When you say free demonstrations, that would suggest he engages in some form of combat with other persons?’

  There was a pause and Barstie decided to stir the fire, while Chas looked around hopefully for tea. None appeared.

  ‘He might do,’ said Chas, at last.

  ‘I wouldn’t say he doesn’t,’ said Barstie.

  ‘Does he fight only other pugilists? Or members of the club?’ asked Frances.

  ‘It’s not really combat,’ said Barstie, ‘not as one might understand it, not as the police might want to interpret it. No, nothing of the sort.’

  ‘Did the late Mr Horton, by any chance, have such a non-combative encounter with Professor Pounder?’

  ‘It was more of a friendly challenge,’ said Chas, ‘the kind of thing that jovial fellows might do to entertain themselves.’

  ‘Nothing wrong in that,’ said Barstie. ‘All amateur, all legal.’

  ‘Well, I am very pleased to hear it,’ said Frances, ‘and since it is legal and friendly there should be no difficulty about your describing it to me.’ She waited.

  ‘It’s called the one minute challenge,’ said Chas, at last. ‘Pounder is the finest exponent of the noble art of self-defence up to and including the Marquess of Queensberry, and it is his pleasure to offer to engage in sparring with any man for one minute. And if that man can land a blow on him in that minute he wins a guinea. It’s a harmless enough amusement.’

  ‘I see,’ said Frances, ‘and I imagine that the members of the Piccadilly Club assemble to watch these one minute exhibitions?’

  ‘Oh yes, very edifying. Very entertaining.’

  ‘And make wagers on the outcome, perhaps?’

  Barstie shrugged. ‘If a gentleman wishes to make a private wager for his own amusement, who can stop him?’

  ‘So,’ said Frances, ‘Mr Horton took Professor Pounder up on his challenge and learned to regret it.’

  ‘He did indeed!’ said Chas. ‘In no small way. And it could have been much worse for him, but the Professor was very kind to him, and chose not to hurt him too much. He took more damage tripping over his own feet than anything the Professor laid on him.’

  ‘As a result of which,’ said Frances, ‘he went about telling anyone who would listen that Professor Pounder assaulted him and then next thing we know he is found violently dead.’

  Chas and Barstie had the good grace to look concerned. ‘I would be willing to bet my life that the Professor was not involved in that,’ said Chas. ‘He is the very devil in the roped ring, but out of it he is a better gentleman than many who were born to it.’

  ‘Well,’ said Frances, ‘I suppose that Mr Horton’s demise is none of my business, unless it had some connection to Mr Palmer’s disappearance, which I doubt. But if you should hear anything of interest, do let me know.’

  At the final day of the inquest on Dr Mackenzie, Dr Bonner appeared, his debilitated condition eliciting little gasps of sympathy from the assembled crowds. He seemed to have aged about twenty years in the last two weeks, and those who were used to seeing his spry, plump frame and genial smile were shocked to see how shrunken he had become. He tottered to his place on a stout stick, helped by Mr Fairbrother, without whose slender but firm arm it seemed he would have fallen. Dr Hardwicke gazed at Bonner with more than usual interest, as if assessing how much of the witness’s condition was due to actual illness or a performance worthy of the best theatres, designed to avoid the consequences of his ineptitude. Dr Hardwicke’s expression showed that he was inclining to the latter opinion.

  ‘I wish to question only one witness,’ said Hardwicke, ‘Dr Bonner.’

  A whisper of anticipation swept around the little court like a swirl of fallen leaves before it settled into a dry heap of silence. Bonner took his time approaching the coroner’s table and was permitted to take a seat nearby.

  ‘Dr Bonner, how long have you known Dr Mackenzie?’

  ‘About eighteen years. We met when I attended a lecture he gave on the subject of —’ he paused, ‘cases of doubtful death.’ A sound like a barely concealed groan gathered about the court.

  ‘And you have been his business partner, personal friend and, I understand, his physician for that period of time?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Could you tell the court about Dr Mackenzie’s state of health in the last weeks of his life?’

  ‘Certainly. He had been under a great deal of strain, working long hours and sometimes forgetting to take proper nourishment. I frequently advised him to take better care of himself, but that was advice he chose to ignore. I sounded his chest and was of the opinion that there was a weakness in his heart. I prescribed stimulants, but whether or not he took them, I don’t know. He was a very private individual.’

  ‘Before the evening of the 21st of September this year, had you any notion that he might be considering taking an unusual course of action?’

  ‘On the previous day he mentioned to me that he had some personal worries and was considering leaving London, but I did not believe he would actually do so.’

  ‘Can you tell the court what happened that evening?’

  ‘Yes, I arrived at the Life House in the usual way and was in conversation with my assistant, Palmer —’ he paused again and glanced at Frances as did many of those present. ‘I am very sorry to say that we still have no news of him. But a short while later Mackenzie arrived and he seemed very agitated. He took me to one side and said that he needed to leave London that very night. He told me a story about how this action was necessitated by his having to protect the reputation of a lady. At the time, I believed him, but I am now of the opinion that he was not telling the truth.’

  There was the scratching sound of busy pencils.

  ‘What do you believe to be the real reason?’ asked Hardwicke.

  ‘Nothing so honourable as he represented, I am afraid. He wished to avoid his creditors.’

  A mutter of surprise flowed about the courtroom and Hardwicke called for silence.

&n
bsp; ‘I have no knowledge of how he incurred these debts and can only assume he made some unwise investments,’ Bonner went on. ‘If I had known it at the time I would not have condoned his leaving and I think he realised that, which was why he tried to deceive me. Even so, I tried to dissuade him. I pointed out that if he was to suddenly go away people might think it had something to do with the Life House and not his personal situation. He said that he intended to fool the world into thinking that he was dead, and would inject himself with a drug that would help in the dissimulation. I advised him against doing so in the strongest possible terms, but he would not listen. He was in a very distraught state and I went to get a glass of brandy for him – we keep some on the premises for medicinal purposes – but as I turned my back he must have injected himself and before I could do anything, he fell. Palmer assisted him onto a bed and we tried for some little time to revive him, but it was impossible. I thought that his heart had collapsed under the strain. I myself was, as you may well imagine, in a state of some considerable distress. Palmer took the body into the chapel out of respect and I sent him to report the sad circumstances to Mackenzie’s landlady. The body gave every appearance of death. A few days later, I believed I had seen signs of advanced putrefaction, but of course, I may have been mistaken …’ Dr Bonner pressed a handkerchief to his eyes. ‘I can only offer the court my sincerest apologies,’ he said, his voice breaking with emotion, ‘and state further that it is my intention to retire immediately from medical practice, and once I am recovered from my present debility – if God grant that I should recover – I will devote all my energy and my fortune alike to works of charity.’

  Dr Hardwicke looked at him with eyes like those of a very ancient mollusk and then turned his gaze towards the jurymen. ‘Gentlemen, you have already heard the medical evidence and might I remind you that it has been stated here that the cause of Dr Mackenzie’s death was a failure of the action of the heart due to fright, and that his death took place after he had been deposited in the catacombs. Professor Stevenson has given his expert opinion that the injection of morphine did not in itself cause the death of Dr Mackenzie, but produced a condition that caused him to be – unfortunately – buried alive. I wish at this point to express my disgust for certain illustrated publications, which have treated this unhappy situation with levity. You, of course, may have your own opinions as to the culpability of Dr Bonner in this matter and whether any further enquiries are necessary. If you wish to retire, you may do so.’

  There was a lengthy whispered conversation between the jurymen and a great deal of nodding after which the foreman stood up. ‘We have reached a verdict. We find that Dr Mackenzie died of heart failure due to fright, brought on by the very unusual circumstances. We have considered recommending that charges of negligence should be brought against Dr Bonner, although we do not believe his actions to be of a criminal nature. In view, however, of his state of health and intention to retire, we do not think any further proceedings would be of value. We would like to add, however, that the entire operation of the Life House has been ill-conceived and ill-administered. We suggest that any current occupants should be decently buried and the business closed down.’ The foreman sat down amidst murmurs of approval from the watching crowds. Mr Fairbrother escorted a relieved looking Bonner from the building although Frances thought that as they headed to a cab, the senior man’s footsteps were a little more agile than they had been indoors.

  ‘So, that is the end of the Life House,’ said Mr Gillan, as he handed in his copy to a runner. ‘Did you know that it was all a fraud in any case? Some letters have just been published in Germany from Friedrich Erlichmann, who died last week and left a statement saying that his whole story was a lie from start to finish. Now, if I could only find that Mrs Biscoby who denounced him all those years ago I would be a happy man. What a story that would make!’ Mr Gillan, who was preparing to attend the Old Bailey next day when he expected the Chronicle to trounce its accuser over the Monmouth affair, was in especially good spirits.

  ‘You appreciate a good story, I know,’ said Frances.

  ‘Oh yes!’ He winked. ‘The exploits of Miss Dauntless!’

  ‘Written by yourself, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh, I wish that was true!’ He laughed, tipped his hat and walked away.

  The next issue of the Chronicle reported at great length on the scandal that had resulted from Friedrich Erlichmann’s legacy. The waiting mortuaries in Germany and Austria had not suffered too greatly since none of them had been established on the basis of Erlichmann’s claims. All had highly respected medical directors who were able to defend their establishments, and put before the public many instances of doubtful death exposed. The Kensal Green Life House, however, had no such support. The Chronicle described with some relish how coffins were being removed for detailed examination of the contents and then burial, after which the doors of the establishment were to be shut and sealed forever. Dr Mackenzie’s dream had survived him by a matter of weeks.

  A few days later, early in the morning before it was light, a small group of men including Mr Fairbrother and Mr Lauderdale, the dental surgeon who had attended Mrs Templeman, proceeded to All Souls Cemetery Kensal Green, where, by special dispensation, they were admitted at a side entrance by an official. Some of the men had medical bags and one bore a camera, but several carried spades. It was a grim little procession, made all the worse by a fine mist that seemed to settle on everything almost like a film of oil or glue that could never be entirely removed. The official led the way with a lantern, moving effortlessly through the avenues of graves, some of them with carved figures contorted with grief that loomed out at them like spirits, and so assured was he that he seemed to glide as he walked, so that all the men began to feel uncomfortably as if they were following a ghost they knew not where, and a sense of dread began to settle over them. So said Mr Fairbrother to Frances as he described the scene to her later on, but she thought he might have been reading too much Wilkie Collins.

  The official identified the location of the common grave recently covered with earth where the body of the woman found in the canal had been interred, and some workmen came and erected wooden screens with a canvas cover to keep out the seeping wet. The ground was boggy and soft and could hardly have been any wetter than it was, but that was all to the good as the spades dug in easily and deep, and clumps of mud were soon being piled to either side like malodorous soil heaps. As time passed the men became aware that outside their close shelter the sun had begun to rise and the hint of warmth only made the air within more oppressive. Despite the liberal sprinkling of stinging disinfectants on the black gummy earth, which was already contaminated with the liquids of putrefaction, the stench, even before the first frail coffin was reached, became overpowering, and several of the gentlemen were obliged to hold cologne-soaked handkerchiefs to their faces.

  ‘Pauper burial,’ said the official, who seemed to be immune to the smell. ‘Cheap coffin, like matchwood. No lead, of course. That’s why we keep these well away from the others.’

  Soon, a spade struck wood, and space around the coffin was cleared, and men descended into the grave and put ropes in place to haul it up.

  ‘How can you be sure this is the one?’ asked Lauderdale.

  ‘This is the one,’ said the official. ‘It’s the last one in the grave – I was here when they put it in.’

  The coffin, which was sodden and dripping black fluids, was hauled up and placed across two wooden blocks, then a crowbar was inserted about the edge of the lid, which gave up the seating of its nails without a great deal of force being required.

  The face, of course, was gone. Whatever resemblance it might have had to anything other than a grinning doll fashioned to attract demons had long since disappeared. But, thought Fairbrother, she had not so long ago been young, and clinging to life, and even beautiful. The thin form had shrunk, so even the stained frills and folds of her grave clothes were loose upon her.

  ‘Wel
l?’ said the official.

  ‘I am sure,’ said Fairbrother, ‘that this is the body of the woman I examined at Kilburn mortuary on the 23rd of September.’ He leaned forward as far as he dared. ‘There is embroidery on the collar of her chemise,’ he said. ‘If you could remove the collar, and have it washed and made presentable then maybe someone might recognise it.’

  Mr Lauderdale, who had a stronger stomach than most, examined the teeth of the corpse, then stepped back while a photograph was taken. He nodded. ‘I told the lady, I’d never seen such twisted teeth before on a person of quality. That’s Mrs Templeman. I’ve no doubt at all about that.’

  ‘In that case,’ said the assistant coroner, ‘I suggest her family will not want her returned to this grave. The body must be placed in a dry shell and removed to Kilburn mortuary to await re-interment. I do not think,’ he added, ‘that the Home Office will drag its feet in opening the mausoleum in which Mrs Templeman was thought to have rested.’

  Mr Fairbrother, shivering still, even many hours later and despite consuming several cups of scalding hot coffee, regaled Frances with his account of the events, saying that he expected a Home Office order to be issued almost at once and dreaded what might happen once the newspapers heard of it, which he expected would be within the hour, if they had not already done so. The coroner had taken charge of the embroidered collar, which had been washed and saturated in a liquid almost as foul as that in which it had been soaked, and it had been taken to Mrs Templeman’s mother, who had seen it and promptly fainted. There was, said Fairbrother miserably, nothing in the world with greater power to convince – not a coroner’s decision, not a dentist’s knowledge – than a mother’s instantaneous unconsciousness. It surpassed the most erudite determination of a bewigged judge and the opinions of a whole panel of doctors.

  ‘When will the mausoleum be opened?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Within the week. A knife to trim the ivy and we will have the answer.’