The Poisonous Seed (19 page)

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.’

‘Let the jury take note,’ said Hardwicke, ‘that Mr Doughty has identified as his the writing in the book relating to Mr Garton’s prescription made on the 12th of January. Now then, Mr Doughty, you have heard Dr Whitmore give as his opinion that the
strychnia
in Mr Garton’s stomach was present in its pure form and that quantities of
strychnia
sufficient to cause death were found in the mixture prepared in your shop. You have already said that you can tell from memory what stock you have in your shop, so I am sure you can advise the court whether or not you have any pure
strychnia
.

‘I am sure that we have none,’ said William.

‘Thank you, Mr Doughty. I have no more questions.’

William was returning to his seat, and Frances was holding out her hand to guide him, when he turned back and added. ‘Of course, there was some, about thirty grains, but it is no longer there, and I am very much afraid I cannot recall how it was utilised.’

There were gasps around the little courtroom, followed by a great hum of chatter. Hardwicke called for silence again. Herbert sat quite still with his eyes closed, and Frances was grateful for the veil which hid the shock and despair on her face. Her father took his seat by her side, possibly the only person in the courtroom indifferent to what was occurring.

‘I wish to call the last witness,’ said Hardwicke. ‘Mrs Mary Keane.’

For a moment Frances wondered if she had heard rightly. Had she concentrated her mind so much on the Keanes that she was actually imagining hearing the name? But Mrs Keane arose like a great full-bodied sailing vessel on the swell of the tide and moved to take her place. Frances glanced at Herbert, who looked at her in astonishment and shrugged.

‘Mrs Keane,’ said Hardwicke, ‘I understand that you are a resident of Bayswater?’

‘I am,’ said the lady in an unexpectedly rich and resonant voice. ‘I am the wife of James Keane of the Bayswater Bank.’

‘Would you be so kind as to tell the court where you were on the evening of the 12th of January last?’

‘I was in Westbourne Grove.’ There was a dramatic pause, then, as if her words needed explanation, which to Frances’ mind they certainly did, ‘My doctor had advised me that gentle walking was beneficial to the constitution, and I had determined to follow his advice as soon as those dreadful fogs had cleared. It so happened therefore that shortly before seven o’clock, I was outside the shop of Mr William Doughty.’ Another pause for effect. Frances, who was holding her breath, had the horrid realisation that Mrs Keane was enjoying this theatrical moment. ‘I recalled that there were a few small articles of a trivial nature which I required, and so, on a moment’s impulse, I entered the shop.’

There was a brief hum of whispered voices in court. ‘Silence!’ insisted the coroner. ‘I do not want to have to say this again!’ He turned to Mrs Keane. ‘Can you tell the court who was in the shop at the time, and what was taking place there?’

‘I could partially see that there were two gentlemen behind the screen. They were clearly occupied, and they did not see me. This young person,’ she indicated Ada, ‘was seated in front of the counter. She did not see me and she did not rise. She was staring at her feet. I thought she was an imbecile.’

Frances looked at Ada, whose face had coloured. She was shaking her head in dismay.

‘I waited a moment or two,’ went on Mrs Keane, ‘and took a brief turn about the shop. I then saw the gentleman who I know to be Mr Doughty leave the counter and pass through a door directly behind him – I assume to some rear portion of the premises. As he did so he emerged briefly from behind the screen, and I saw that he was holding a medicine bottle. A few moments passed and then he returned, still holding the bottle, and rejoined the other gentleman behind the screen.’

Frances now had a full understanding of what the newspapers always described as ‘sensation’. Everyone in court forgot the coroner’s strict injunction and burst into excited chatter, while the pressmen wrote furiously, their eyes gleaming in excitement. Ada sat still with tears in her eyes, and Herbert turned to Frances and said, ‘She was not there! I will swear it in any court! If she had come in I would have heard the bell!’ In the midst of it all, James Keane sat utterly composed, a small smile of triumph on his lips.

‘If this continues the court will be cleared!’ exclaimed Hardwicke. ‘Please restrain yourselves and recall the dignity of the occasion!’ Gradually, the onlookers settled. ‘Please go on, Mrs Keane.’

‘Shortly afterwards, I left the shop. I did not speak to anyone there and I did not purchase anything.’

‘Mrs Keane, you have said that no one in the shop noticed you were there,’ a snigger ran around the courtroom, which was quickly stifled. ‘But the shop has a bell, does it not? A bell which alerts those behind the counter that a customer has entered? Did the bell sound?’

There was a long pause as if Mrs Keane had only just recognised the difficulty with her story. ‘It did not,’ she said at last. ‘I can only assume that the bad weather had somehow affected it.’

‘I see,’ said Hardwicke. ‘You may stand down, Mrs Keane.’

The lady returned to her seat, leaving Frances wondering what Mrs Keane hoped to achieve by offering such blatant lies to the court. She looked at the jury but saw no sign in their solemn faces to suggest whether they believed this travesty.

Mr Hardwicke addressed the jury. ‘That, gentlemen, concludes the evidence, and it only remains for you to arrive at your verdict. The first point for you to consider is the cause of death, and I believe that the evidence of Dr Collin and Dr Whitmore offers only one possible conclusion, that Mr Percival Garton died from poisoning with
strychnia
. Moreover there is no reason to suggest that anything other than the medicine was responsible. The next matter for your consideration is why the poison was taken. In cases of this nature there are usually three possibilities. Poison may have been taken deliberately by the deceased. It may be administered by a third party with intent to kill or injure, or it may have been taken by accident, usually because of negligence or carelessness either of the deceased or another person. In this instance I see no shred of evidence that Percival Garton administered poison to himself with the intent to take his own life. Indeed, suicide with
strychnia
is rare, compared with the other poisons, because of the unpleasant nature of the symptoms. The next possibility is deliberate administration by a third party. If you believe this to be the case then your verdict should be murder, and you may name the individual you consider to be guilty, or else lay it at the door of a person or persons unknown. While murder is not beyond the bounds of possibility in this case, you may consider that the evidence before you has not supplied one hint of any individual who might wish harm to Mr Garton. There is no suggestion that Mr Doughty regarded Mr Garton as anything other than a valued customer. He gains nothing by Mr Garton’s death, in fact he loses. If you believe that Mr Garton’s death may have been one of those unfortunate accidents which happen from time to time, you should bring in a verdict of misadventure.’

The jurors were glancing at one another and Frances suspected that this was their preferred verdict, one that would leave her father’s position in a horrible limbo where he would be tried by the tongues of gossips.

‘Yet it is more than that,’ Hardwicke went on. ‘If Mr Doughty did mistakenly put a deadly poison into Mr Garton’s medicine, he did so not as an ignorant untrained person but as a man of experience, qualifications, a man occupying a position where he should inspire confidence and trust. You may wonder if such a gross error of judgement is likely for a man such as Mr Doughty, but it is apparent to us all today that the gentleman is unwell. His memory does not serve him as it once did. A mistake is therefore very possible. A verdict of misadventure may, despite the absence of any harmful intent, still lead to serious consequences for Mr Doughty, even a criminal prosecution, but I ask you to put that from your minds. Your task here today is to arrive at a conclusion regarding the death of Mr Garton. I now ask you to retire and consider your verdict.’

Hardwicke was ordering his papers, while there was a brief consultation amongst the jurymen. ‘Sir, we feel it is not necessary for us to retire,’ said the foreman. ‘We have arrived at our verdict.’ A paper was passed to Hardwicke, who perused it and asked the foreman to address the court.

The foreman rose. ‘We find a verdict of death by misadventure, and we add that we believe that this was due to a mistake made by Mr Doughty. Given the gentleman’s illness we would hope that any consequences will not be too harsh. We also find that Mr Munson was entirely blameless in the matter.’

It was over, thought Frances. Everything was over. The business, her father’s reputation – all gone. The room seemed to darken before her and for a moment she thought she was about to faint, but she tried to breathe evenly and stay calm for her father’s sake. The feeling passed. There was nothing to do but go home and sit quietly and consider what was best to be done.

‘I am truly sorry,’ said Mr Rawsthorne, as they left the court. The crowds were still there, not in such numbers as before, but all in hot debate about the verdict, and as Frances appeared with her father, they surged forward. The young clerk was about to call out for a path to be made, but to his consternation, his pens were suddenly scattered on the ground, and he was obliged to scramble for them. The police formed a barrier, and Frances, rubbing ink from her fingers, was able to guide her father to the carriage without too much discomfort. ‘If there is anything I can do, you must tell me at once,’ said Rawsthorne. He grasped William by the hand. ‘You must rest and recover, old friend.’

On the way home, Frances was silent. Despite the jury’s request for lenience, she knew that they were facing the alarming prospect that her father might be arrested. At the very least he would be expelled from membership of the Pharmaceutical Society. Would he even understand what had happened to him? How could she persuade him that he must not appear in the shop? Would the customers ever return?

William was tired, yet as she helped him up the stairs there was a note of agitation about him which suggested he would be unable to settle. It was useless to question him about the 12th – like all recent memories it seemed to be clouded in his mind. She saw that he had a warm drink, and hoped that this would soothe him into taking a nap.

When she returned to the parlour, Herbert was pacing the floor distractedly. ‘I am convinced that the bell was working,’ he said. ‘It has always worked unless deliberately interfered with, as that malodorous person did the other day. And I would be prepared to swear that Mr Doughty did not go into the storeroom at any time during the making up of the prescription!’ He waved his arms above his head in agitation. ‘What is to become of us now? We are tainted with suspicion! And your poor father, what will happen to him? He has long enjoyed the admiration and respect of everyone in Bayswater. None more than myself! He has been kinder to me than a parent! His guidance and teaching will be of value to me for the rest of my life! I —,’ he broke off and clenched his fists, and Frances saw to her surprise that there were tears in his eyes.

She certainly trusted Herbert’s recollection of events, but was aware that in the event of a trial any court might consider his evidence tainted by self-interest. Her father’s memory was clearly faulty, and anything Ada said might be disregarded as she was a servant. Mrs Keane, as the respectable wife of a local banker, could very well carry the day. The thing that most disturbed her was the unpleasant smile on James Keane’s face, when everyone else in the court was struck by alarm and despair.

With chilling certainty, Frances now knew the true source of Mrs Keane’s evidence. It was a lie from beginning to end, and she had been coerced into it by her husband. Frances had no doubt that Keane had murdered Garton, and had no compunction about sacrificing her father to avoid discovery. And Mrs Keane, married to such a brute, and in his power, had done his bidding. Had Keane promised to save his father-in-law from ruin in return for her testimony? The more Frances thought about it the angrier she became, until it was impossible for her to sit still and do nothing.

Frances stood up. ‘Sarah – see that my father is settled for his nap. I am going out.’

Sarah obeyed, but Herbert stared as she put on her coat. ‘Are you going to consult Mr Rawsthorne?’

‘No,’ said Frances, ‘I am going to see Mrs Keane and demand that she change her evidence.’

‘But they are most unlikely to admit you to the house,’ said Herbert.

‘I will gain admission,’ said Frances. ‘I don’t yet know how, but I will do it. I will do it if I have to stand in the street all night and make a public commotion.’

‘This is hardly —’

‘Hardly what, Mr Munson?’ she cried so sharply that he recoiled. ‘Hardly proper behaviour? I no longer care about that. If Mrs Keane has so far forgotten the niceties as to tell a lie that will destroy my father I think I may be excused for forgetting them too.’