The Poisonous Seed: A Frances Doughty Mystery (The Frances Doughty Mysteries) Read online

  The jury took their places, and Dr William Hardwicke, Coroner for Central Middlesex, entered and was seated. He looked about the court with a critical eye, as if gauging the quality of those attending. ‘Before we begin I wish to point out to those in attendance that this court will not tolerate the kind of exhibition that has taken place in the street outside,’ he said sternly. ‘Anyone behaving in an unseemly manner will be held in contempt, and liable to prosecution. I hope that is understood.’ The pressmen scribbled rapidly. ‘We will begin with the adjourned inquest on Mr Percival Garton, aged forty-eight, who died at his home in Porchester Terrace on the morning of Tuesday 13th of January. This court has already heard evidence of identification from the brother of the deceased, Mr Cedric Garton, and I wish now to proceed to the evidence of his medical attendant, Dr Collin.’

  Dr Collin rose and took his place by the coroner’s table.

  ‘Dr Collin,’ said the coroner, ‘in your own words, please relate the events of the night of 12th to 13th of January last and the subsequent events concerning the death of Mr Percival Garton.’

  Collin had a soft, drawling voice. At the bedside of a patient those calming tones would utter gentle reassurances that all would be well, and had soothed many a fretful sufferer into much needed repose. Here, he spoke easily and convincingly. ‘I was called to attend Mr Garton shortly after midnight. I had already retired for the night, but on being told of the seriousness of the case, of course I dressed and came at once. It would have been about half past twelve on the morning of the 13th of January when I reached him. He was then between fits, and lay in bed exhausted, his body bathed in sweat. He was able to speak, and said that he was thirsty. I called for a carafe of water to be brought, but before it came, he suffered a fit in which the convulsions were so violent that it was with very great difficulty that Mrs Garton and I were able to keep him on the bed. Mrs Garton, I have to say, showed enormous courage in her very obvious distress. My first impression was that her husband was suffering from tetanus, and I asked Mrs Garton if he had any recent injuries but she said he had not. I soon observed, however, that the jaw was not affected as one might expect in tetanus, and I began to suspect poisoning with strychnia. All doubt was removed when the next fit supervened, his body adopting the characteristic posture in which it arched backwards, head and heels alone touching the surface of the bed. His face was livid, the eyeballs staring, his pulse almost too fast to count, his expression contorted in risus sardonicus. Throughout this ordeal, Mr Garton was, I may add, fully conscious, in great pain, and most dreadfully aware of his predicament. I attempted to treat him with an emetic, but the slightest touch brought on new spasms. I was about to apply chloroform on a handkerchief, but he suffered another violent fit during which he was unable to breathe, and he expired.’

  Dr Collin paused, and for a while the only sound in court was that of rapidly scribbling pencils. ‘On the 14th of January I carried out a post-mortem examination. I noticed at once that the body was unusually rigid, the hands clenched. The brain was considerably congested, the lungs normal, and the stomach was almost empty apart from a small amount of fluid. I gathered from this that prior to his death he had not had any solid food for several hours. It is my opinion that the cause of death was poisoning with strychnia and, given the severity of the symptoms, I would estimate that Mr Garton must have consumed at the very least two and very probably up to three grains or more.’

  ‘Did you form any opinion as to the source of the strychnia?’ asked the coroner.

  ‘I questioned Mrs Garton very closely as to what her husband had consumed in the hours prior to his death. We know that he ate dinner, which commenced just after seven and was over by half past eight. No one else at the meal was affected, and indeed had he consumed strychnia at that meal he would have been taken ill much sooner than he was. I discount the meal entirely. During the rest of the evening he ate no more solid food but consumed only aerated water. This was from a bottle which was also used to serve others. I discount the water. According to Mrs Garton, he took nothing more that evening until he returned home and dosed himself with the mixture obtained from Mr Doughty’s chemist’s shop earlier in the day. The symptoms of poisoning commenced less than half an hour afterwards.’

  Herbert glanced at Frances, his face creased with anxiety. Having listened attentively, she was obliged to admit that she had heard nothing in Dr Collin’s evidence with which she could disagree.

  The next witness was the analyst Dr Whitmore, who began by confirming that Percival Garton had consumed some of his medicine as he was able to detect oil of oranges in the stomach contents. He had also found strychnia, in a quantity that led him to agree with Dr Collin’s estimate of how much the deceased had ingested.

  ‘From your examination of the stomach contents have you been able to form any opinion of whether Mr Garton consumed an overdose of nux vomica, or was the strychnia present in any other form?’ asked Dr Hardwicke. Frances realised that her hands were trembling and she clasped them tightly together.

  ‘One form of strychnia which is readily available to the public is vermin killers,’ said Dr Whitmore. ‘These are sold mixed with colouring such as Prussian blue or soot. I detected neither of these colourings in the stomach, and concluded that the strychnia did not come from such a source. I also examined the material for the presence of brucia. The quantity of brucia in the nux vomica seed is almost as great as strychnia but it is not nearly as poisonous. My tests led me to believe that the amount of brucia consumed by Mr Garton was less than one twentieth of a grain. I do not believe therefore that he consumed an overdose of nux vomica in any form, be it tincture, extract or powder.’

  Frances could not resist a glance at Inspector Sharrock, whose theory had just been officially discounted. He was frowning with concentration.

  The analyst went on: ‘The amount of strychnia in the stomach and the severity of the symptoms can only, in my opinion, be accounted for by the deceased having taken a fatal dose of strychnia in its pure form. I have also subjected to analysis items of foodstuffs, wine, and other drinks that remained after the meal served to guests at the home of Mr Keane where Mr Garton dined shortly before he died. I found nothing of any note. I also examined the contents of Mr Garton’s brandy flask, which he kept in his carriage, and that, too, I can absolve of any suspicion. I analysed samples of the ingredients used in composing Mr Garton’s mixture taken from the shop of Mr William Doughty of Westbourne Grove, and found nothing suspicious. Finally I turned to the bottle of medicine which was prepared by Mr Doughty and from which Mr Garton took a dose shortly before his fatal attack. The mixture contained, as I would have expected from the prescription, a small quantity of nux vomica, which I believe to have been in the form of the tincture, diluted with stock syrup, and flavoured with oil of oranges and some harmless carminatives. In addition, however, I discovered some grains of pure white crystalline strychnia.’ A low groan ran around the hall, and Frances knew that all eyes had turned to look at William and herself. ‘The amount of mixture remaining in the bottle was an ounce, and I detected two and a half grains of strychnia. I have no doubt that if Mr Garton had consumed more than the prescribed dose of the mixture, as I understand was his habit, this would easily be sufficient to account for his death. I can offer no opinion, however, as to how the strychnia came to be in the mixture.’

  As the court buzzed with chatter, Frances tried to take heart. As far as she was concerned, the analysis proved that the medicine had been made up according to the prescription. The mysterious presence of a lethal amount of pure strychnia was clear evidence of tampering after the bottle had left the shop.

  ‘Silence!’ called Dr Hardwicke. ‘This is not a theatre; it is a serious business. Please show respect for the court.’

  Ada was the next to make her statement. She crept to the chair with a terrified look, and had some difficulty in opening her mouth to speak, eventually admitting that she was Ada Hawkins, aged twenty-five and housemaid to the
deceased. ‘Now then, Ada,’ said Dr Hardwicke kindly, as one might speak to a child, ‘tell me all about the evening you went to the chemist’s shop to get Mr Garton’s medicine.’

  ‘Well, sir, there isn’t a great deal to say,’ said Ada, who was trying to overcome her nerves by addressing the coroner directly. He obliged her by leaning towards her as if at a private interview. ‘I gave the prescription to Mr Doughty and then I sat down. My corns were hurting terrible that night!’ Hardwicke nodded sympathetically. ‘Then I took the bottle – it was all wrapped up with paper and string and sealing wax as usual – and brought it home.’

  ‘When you were in the shop, did you see the prescription being made?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, Sir. Mr Doughty and Mr Munson were behind the screen.’

  ‘Now, Ada, this is a very important question,’ said Hardwicke. ‘Did either of those gentlemen at any time go into the storeroom behind the counter to fetch anything? Think carefully. Can you remember?’

  Ada thought, her face twisted into a frown, then she sighed. ‘I don’t remember seeing anything. I was looking at my feet most of the time.’

  ‘Did anyone else enter the shop while you were there?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘So,’ said Hardwicke, ‘you brought the medicine home. What did you do with it?’

  ‘I put it on the night table in the bedroom,’ she said, more confidently.

  ‘Still wrapped and sealed?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And as far as you are aware no one touched it before Mr Garton took his night-time dose?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Ada gulped and looked as if she was about to babble an apology for dropping the bottle, but to her relief the coroner said, ‘Thank you, Ada, you may stand down now.’

  Ada rose and scurried thankfully to the back of the court. Hardwicke turned to the court attendants. ‘Bring Mrs Garton to the court please.’

  A policeman opened a door at the back of the court and, after a brief pause, Mrs Henrietta Garton emerged. She was a stately woman, her posture giving her an air of noble suffering that could not help but evoke small sounds of pity from the onlookers. She was dressed in the deepest of mourning, and thickly veiled so that her features could not be seen. Slowly, she sat upon the chair, where she rested like a statue, poised and dignified.

  ‘Mrs Garton,’ said Hardwicke kindly, though not at all in the way he had addressed Ada, ‘I am aware that this must be very painful for you, and I will keep it as brief as possible, but the court must hear from your own lips about the night of your husband’s death.’

  ‘I understand,’ she whispered.

  ‘Would you say that up to the moment of his last fatal illness your husband was, apart from his tendency to indigestion, in good health?

  There was a pause, as if she needed to collect herself. ‘Yes.’

  ‘When you returned home on the evening of 12th January, was the bottle of medicine standing on the side table, still wrapped, tied with string and sealed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And who unwrapped it?’

  A deep sigh. ‘My husband.’

  ‘Can you say how much of it he took?’

  Another pause. ‘I – do not know. He drank directly from the bottle.’

  ‘Did he say anything to you about the medicine?’

  A small rapid intake of breath, as if stifling tears. ‘He said it tasted bitter.’ The sound of scribbling pencils rustled about the court.

  ‘How soon after taking his medicine did he become ill?’

  ‘About fifteen or twenty minutes.’

  ‘Can you tell us how it came about that so little of the mixture remained in the bottle?’

  She paused again, and sighed. ‘My husband said he was sure there was something wrong with the medicine. I picked up the bottle and uncorked it and was smelling the mixture, when – oh it was a terrible sight – his whole body – the pain of it – his face – I gave the bottle to Ada and told her to take care of it, but the foolish girl dropped it, and some was spilt.’ She began to weep, gasping and choking for breath, her bosom heaving. Hardwicke motioned an attendant to bring a glass of water to the lady. She lifted it to her mouth behind the veil, sipped, and after a moment was able to collect herself. ‘Fortunately not all of it was lost and I asked Dr Collin to give the bottle to the police.’

  ‘I know this is very distressing for you, Mrs Garton,’ said Hardwicke, ‘I will try to be brief.’

  ‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘go on.’

  Hardwicke nodded. ‘Mrs Garton, do you know of anyone who might have wished harm to your husband?’

  There was a soft gentle sobbing from under the veil, and she shook her head. ‘My husband was the best of men. All who knew him liked and admired him.’

  ‘And – I am sorry if this question is painful to you, but I am obliged to ask it – was your husband ever in a despondent mood? Did you ever have a suspicion that he might have been inclined to do himself harm?’

  ‘Never!’ she said firmly.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Garton, there are no further questions.’

  With an imposing slow dignity, Mrs Garton rose, and returned to the room at the back of the court. It was as if everyone had been holding their collective breath, like an audience who had been watching a tightrope walker, and could only now exhale.

  ‘Mr Herbert Munson,’ said Hardwicke.

  Herbert jumped up so fast he almost knocked his chair over and took his place. He was panting slightly and little beads of sweat stood out on his brow.

  ‘In your own words Mr Munson,’ said Hardwicke, briskly, ‘identify yourself and tell the court about the making up of Mr Percival Garton’s prescription on 12th of January last.’

  Herbert nodded. The words came out in a torrent. ‘Yes, Sir. My full name is Herbert George Munson and I am twenty-two and for the last year I have been apprentice to Mr William Doughty at his shop on Westbourne Grove. Shortly before seven on the evening of 12th January a young person I know only as Ada who is maidservant to Mr Percival Garton entered the shop with a prescription. It was for a mixture which has been dispensed to Mr Garton before. It consists of only two ingredients, tincture of nux vomica and elixir of oranges. The mixture was made from stock which had been used on previous occasions, and exactly as required by the prescription.’

  Hardwicke nodded. ‘So, Mr Munson, you are saying that only the two ingredients you have mentioned were in the bottle?’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ said Herbert. ‘And in the amounts specified.’

  ‘Did either you or Mr William Doughty go into the storeroom to fetch anything while the prescription was being made?

  ‘No, Sir,’ said Herbert emphatically.

  ‘Did anyone else enter the shop while the prescription was being made?’

  ‘Not that I noticed, Sir.’

  ‘Does the shop carry any stock of strychnia in its pure form?’

  Herbert trembled, and Frances saw the tell-tale quivering of his moustache tips. ‘I have never seen any, Sir.’

  ‘Thank you Mr Munson. You may stand down. I now wish to question Mr William Doughty.’

  As her father took his place, Frances, for one horrible moment of revelation, saw him as he appeared to others, a man whose prime had been destroyed by sickness and care. His hair, which despite her best efforts at smoothing and dressing it, was dishevelled, and there was a weakness in his left leg which dragged a little as he walked.

  Hardwicke, himself a medical man, observed William carefully as he took his place.

  ‘Mr Doughty, you are a qualified pharmacist and member of the Pharmaceutical Society?’

  ‘I am,’ said William.

  ‘And how long have you been proprietor of the shop in Westbourne Grove?’

  ‘Oh, upwards of twenty years. We are very well thought of in Bayswater.’

  ‘In your own words, please, I would like you to tell me about the evening on which you prepared Mr Garton’s prescription.’
/>   William licked his lips and frowned. ‘I – can you tell me the date – I am not sure – my memory…’

  ‘That would be Monday the 12th January last,’ said Hardwicke.

  ‘Ah. Yes. Monday,’ said William thoughtfully. ‘And today is …?’

  ‘Thursday 22nd January.’

  William nodded. ‘Yes. 22nd you say. January. Indeed.’

  There was a long pause, as if William had forgotten the original question. ‘Mr Doughty,’ said Hardwicke, patiently, ‘can you tell the court what you recall of the making up of Mr Garton’s prescription?’

  ‘I —,’ William sighed. ‘I think I have been asked about this before. Is the poor fellow dead?’

  A titter ran around the court, but one stern look from the coroner brought silence. ‘Indeed he is, Mr Doughty, and it is his death we are enquiring into today,’ said Hardwicke, gently. ‘Do you recall making up his prescription on the 12th of January?’

  There was another long pause. ‘It is very strange,’ said William sadly. ‘There are so many things I remember well. Ask me anything from the Pharmacopoeia and I would answer you directly. I could tell off the order of the stock bottles on my shelves as if I was standing before them. But I can recall nothing of making Mr Garton’s prescription.’

  Hardwicke tried another tack. ‘Mr Doughty, can you tell me from memory the ingredients of the mixture normally dispensed to Mr Garton?’

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ said William, promptly. ‘Tinctura nucis vomicae two drachms, elixir aurantii to six ounces. The elixir is our own receipt, you know,’ he added with modest pride.

  Hardwicke nodded at the coroner’s constable, who brought forward the Doughtys’ prescription book open at the 12th January, and showed it to William. ‘Is that your handwriting, Mr Doughty?’

  William peered at the book. ‘I – yes, yes it is.’