Breaths of Suspicion (10 page)

‘Let me guess, a correspondence course for which he never paid.’

‘You guessed right, Mr James.’

In fact it was already in Cockburn’s brief. I was beginning to get bored. This was all so petty. I needed more than I had heard so far.

Ben Gully sniffed, scratched his stubbly chin. ‘William Palmer then ups and gets married to one Anne Thornton, the daughter of an Army officer. Illegitimate, but she had prospects. On the strength of them prospects Palmer borrowed money and bought himself a couple of nags, which he ran unsuccessfully, in between siring four sons and a daughter on the said Anne Thornton. Five children.…’ He sniffed. ‘The eldest is still alive.’

I picked up the emphasis. I began to feel a slow, familiar cancer of suspicion in my chest. ‘The
eldest
? What about the others?’

Ben wiped some ale from his chin. ‘Faded away. It’s reported Billy Palmer often said he regarded large families as ruinously expensive,’ Ben said coolly.

‘How did they die?’

‘Officially? Convulsions.’

I was silent for a little while. Infant mortality was high. It could be just bad luck, or bad drains. But five out of six? Yet Ben Gully had not finished.

‘Some say he used to put poison with a little honey on his finger and let them suck.’

I grunted sourly. ‘Gossip?’

Ben Gully shrugged, leaned back and began to attack the plate of crisp pork chops as mine also arrived. He chewed his appreciatively. ‘You know, Mr James, you can say this about Stunning Sam, you don’t usually get chops liked these in this kind of establishment.… Anyway, there’s more to this Palmer story. His wife, Anne Thornton as was, like I said, she had prospects.’

‘How much?’

‘She expected to get twelve thousand on her mother’s death. So it seems William Palmer invited the old lady to come for a holiday. She went to stay with them at Palmer’s house in Rugeley.’

‘And?’

“The old lady got took ill, and turned up her toes. Sudden.’

I was getting interested. I ignored my pork chops, while Ben
champed at his. ‘And what might have been the certified cause of death?’

‘Apoplexy.’ Ben sighed. ‘A lot of chatter, but you know, things are funny in Rugeley and Stafford. In spite of all the murmuring, Palmer’s popular there. There’s people who say Palmer is much maligned, it’s all just malicious gossip about his children and his mother-in-law; but there’s others who reckon there’s no smoke without fire. Perhaps those he owes money to – you know what I mean. And apart from his family losses, there’s others. Palmer was friendly with one Leonard Bladen. They used to go to the races together, regular. They say Palmer borrowed money from Bladen, then Bladen had a big win at Chester, and suddenly he dropped dead about a week later. Strange thing was his widow couldn’t lay hands on his betting book.’

‘Which would have shown a record of what was owing to him.… Palmer was challenged?’ I asked.

Ben Gully shook his head. ‘Inquiries began to be made. But then they was dropped. Mrs Bladen didn’t want to go on with it. Mrs Bladen reckoned Anne Palmer was very kind to her. A close friend. So she let things drop.’

I sipped at my brandy and water thoughtfully. ‘All this is just local chatter, of course.’

Ben sighed, as though contemplating the wickedness of Man. ‘There’s plenty more of it. William Palmer’s mother, Sarah Palmer, she had a lover. Name of Jeremiah Smith. It was through him that Palmer negotiated an insurance policy on the life of his own wife. Then guess what? Few weeks later, Palmer’s wife died after catching a chill at a concert in Liverpool.’ Ben paused, eyeing his rapidly disappearing chop. ‘It seems the grieving widower didn’t mourn long: he picked up thirteen thousand on that policy. He immediately paid off some debts—and within a month insured his drunken brother’s life for another fourteen thousand. This brother, he’s a man who would regularly toss off half a tumbler of raw
spirits before turning black in the face.’

These were details I needed to know in support of Cockburn’s brief. ‘You’re going to tell me that the brother died?’

Gully nodded. ‘Not long after. Palmer sent for an undertaker, ordered a coffin and then coolly telegraphed the clerk of the course at Ludlow to find out where his horse had come in the last race.’

I shook my head in disbelief. ‘Did the company pay out the insurance?’ I asked incredulously.

‘When they discovered Palmer had tried it on with three other assurance companies, they demurred. Palmer didn’t fight it. So it seems that particular venture didn’t come off. But the story is he then tried to insure an acquaintance of his by the name of Bate. The proposal was refused. That didn’t stop our surgeon going along with his friend Cook to the Shrewsbury Handicap where they both had horses running. Cook picked up at least eight hundred on the course and was due to get the balance of two thousand from Tattersall’s. Palmer’s own horse,
Chicken
, did badly and he lost money. The story is that after the races the two men went back to the Raven Hotel. Cook was took ill that very night.’

I nodded. ‘And shortly afterwards, died. This is the charge that’s to be brought against Palmer.’

‘Will you be able to use the rest? The brother, Anne Palmer, the mother-in-law, the children, the insurance companies—’

‘It’s background, Ben, background, maybe even idle chatter, but it might be crucial. If we can manage to bring it in.’

I thought hard while Gully chomped his way through the chops, took a hunk of bread and wiped his plate. He looked up inquisitively. ‘So what’s to happen now, Mr James?’

I smiled. ‘First of all, I shall be having a meeting with the remarkable Dr Palmer. Face to face. In a court of law.’

T
he hearing took place at the beginning of January at Westminster. William Palmer was at that time held at Stafford Gaol awaiting trial for the murder of John Parsons Cook and this was the only time that he was allowed outside the building: no doubt he appreciated the opportunity to visit the metropolis, for as I was about to discover he was a cool character, our horse-racing surgeon of Rugeley.

Because of my background and experience in the Bankruptcy Court I was a natural choice as counsel to the moneylender Padstone. The brief informed me that Mr Padstone had made a loan of £2,000 to William Palmer, backed by a bill of exchange, which had apparently been signed by Palmer’s mother, the widow Sarah Palmer. Padstone was now seeking to recover the two thousand but he was facing a problem. Sarah Palmer denied that the signature on the bill was hers: it had been forged.

The defence produced Mrs Palmer: she was an elderly,
grey-haired
but spirited lady, well turned out in the latest fashion and bold and firm in her statements. In my examination I was unable to shake her in her denials: she averred stoutly she had not signed the bill. She was then supported by sworn statements from three of her children, siblings of William Palmer. First there was George who swore the signature was not that of his mother; he was followed
by his sister Sarah who swore to the same truth and finally the Reverend Thomas Palmer appeared to say the same thing: as a man of the cloth his evidence was particularly damaging to my client.

For as I had already explained to the moneylender Padstone when he first came to my chambers for advice, if the signature on the bill was indeed forged, the bill was worthless. It would be necessary, therefore, to show that William Palmer had obtained the loan by false pretences and forgery, after which he himself could be charged with repayment of the loan—hence the present proceedings.

Of course I had pressed the mother hard.

‘Madam, let us be precise. If this is not your signature, it must be a forgery. Since the loan was made to your son William Palmer, it is clear that he must have signed in your name, in order to obtain this money.’

‘That cannot be so,’ she averred stoutly. ‘My Billy would never seek to rob me so!’

So, inevitably, I needed to have the surgeon himself in the witness box, to challenge him and, if possible, to get him to admit the forgery so redress could be obtained by his duped moneylender. I could see the burly, red-cheeked Mr Padstone leaning forward eagerly, with a hungry, angry look in his eye, when Palmer’s name was called and the door to the judge’s private room was thrown open.

Mr Padstone was not the only eager face craning to get sight of the notorious witness. Indeed, it was a remarkable day. Since William Palmer’s arrest there had been a scramble among his creditors to obtain what money they could from his estate: it might prove more difficult if he was to be hanged. His main assets were lodged in the racehorses he owned: Tattersall’s craftily put them up for sale on the very day
Padstone v Palmer
was heard, and the coincidence attracted a large gathering in the auction ring and resulted in excited competitive bidding. Westminster Hall was
noisily crowded and the courtroom itself packed with urgent onlookers: demand for tickets of entry had been huge. Everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of the notorious surgeon from Rugeley. A collective sigh arose when he made his dramatic entrance, and the courtroom was then briefly silent as all observed him, coming into the dock in the custody of a large and muscular police officer with a black, bushy moustache.

The man I saw in the witness box was then thirty-one years old but looked older, partly because of his thinning, light brown hair brushed back over his forehead: he was solidly built,
broad-shouldered
and somewhat bull-necked. He was a little above average height, his complexion was florid, his forehead high and intelligent, and nothing in his calm, confident appearance suggested ferocity or cunning. His hands were small, almost pretty in their whiteness: I had heard he was accustomed to wear
wash-leather
gloves to maintain their plump softness. Now he stood in the witness box and looked about the court: his glance fastened upon a red-haired young woman seated near the lawyer who was conducting the defence case. I understood later she was one Jane Widnall, with whom, among other ladies of loose morals, he had enjoyed a lengthy relationship. I continued to watch him with interest as he was sworn in. He spoke in a firm, distinct tone, his voice betrayed no hesitation or nervousness and I concluded he was a cool, controlled customer.

Just how cool I was quickly to discover.

I went straight to the point. I handed him the bill of exchange which acknowledged the £2,000 loan.

‘Is the signature
William Palmer
as the drawer of this bill in your handwriting?’

He glanced at the document, then looked directly at me. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘And you applied to Mr Padstone to advance you money on this bill?’

His glance held mine steadily, unmoved. ‘I did.’

I smiled. We could immediately proceed to the heart of the matter. ‘The signatory to the bill is Sarah Palmer. But your mother, Mrs Sarah Palmer, has sworn she did
not
sign this bill. Did you forge her signature?’

‘I did not.’

He was lying, I knew. ‘So who
did
write Mrs Sarah Palmer’s acceptance on it?’

His eyes remained steady; there was no flicker, no hesitation, no hint of concern in his glance. There was a short pause until at last he replied.

‘Anne Palmer.’

A palpable hush settled over the room. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. I myself was momentarily stunned: the effrontery of the reply staggered me. I hesitated, then asked, ‘
Anne Palmer.
Who is she?’

Calmly, without emotion William Palmer replied, ‘She is now dead’

I struggled to breathe. ‘Do you mean, are you telling the court that it was your
wife
who signed …
forged
your mother’s signature?’

‘Yes,’ he said, holding my fierce glance with a studied lack of concern.

I bit my lip. The case was sliding away from me; if what the surgeon was stating was true, Padstone’s case would collapse in a heap. Manfully, I struggled with the only question left to me. ‘You say it was your wife’s doing.… Did you
see
her write the acceptance, in the name of Sarah Palmer?’

‘I did.’

There was no way in which he could be gainsaid. I heard the rustle begin in the courtroom behind me; people sat up, whispered, and a shudder of horror seemed to settle upon all who heard the cold, calculated, heartless tone of the man in the witness box. He had taken the money; he had probably forged the name himself; a
straightforward confession of forgery and fraud would have saved his mother’s honour. Instead, he was blaming his wife, a woman who could not defend herself—subjecting her name to calumny and leaving Padstone without remedy. The moneylender was outmanoeuvred: he could not sue a dead woman for forgery, could not recover his £2,000.

I turned to look at him. He gaped at me, his florid features paling. I shrugged, then informed the court that I had no recourse other than to retire from the case. As the jury announced in favour of old Mrs Sarah Palmer my client grabbed me by the arm. ‘Just half an hour ago, before the trial, I bought two of the doctor’s horses at Tattersall’s. Near five hundred guineas it cost me! I swear, if I’d known how this case would go I’d never have bought hoof nor hair of that twister’s bloodstock!’

As he was escorted from the courtroom Palmer glanced back at me, over his shoulder. A slight smile played across his lips.

As I told the recently promoted Attorney General Alexander Cockburn next day, it was clear we were dealing with a cool, collected villain and rogue who would no doubt be able to twist and turn at every occasion. We would need not merely to be sure of our evidence and witnesses; we would have to anticipate just what defences William Palmer might concoct.

Cockburn was gloomy of countenance. ‘We have severe problems with our case as it stands. You’re right in your views: the evidence against Palmer—the hard evidence of fact—is slim. I believe you’ve had your man Gully rooting about in Stafford. Has he found anything we can use?’

I shook my head regretfully. ‘Rumours … plenty of them. But real facts, no. And there’s the matter of local feeling.’

‘It’s against Palmer?’

‘Hardly. It may be surprising, but scarcely any people in the locality believe in his guilt: they discount what they hear; they
describe it as malicious gossip. They claim Palmer is a generous, kindly man, and one they respect. So the first of our problems is the raising of a jury … unbiased.’ I frowned. ‘The men and women we place in the jury box, if drawn from Stafford and Rugeley, will probably be strongly on Palmer’s side. There’s been too much talk—everyone knows what’s claimed, and many dispute it.’

‘So what do you suggest, James?’

‘Move the trial.’

And that’s how it came about—for the first time in history a criminal case was moved from the assize court in the area where the alleged crime was committed. The process began when I met Palmer’s solicitor Mr John Smith in my chambers, next day.

‘Honest John’ Smith of Birmingham was a man short of leg, wizened of features, with a pendulous lower lip that quivered when he spoke, but he had wide-spaced, sober eyes and an earnest expression. The sobriquet ‘Honest John’ was at variance with the general view the public holds of lawyers: honesty and law have never been regarded as natural bedfellows. Perhaps he had earned it by the straightforward manner of his speech.

He began by asking if I would lead for the defence of William Palmer! He half-closed his heavy-lidded eyes thoughtfully, and said, ‘I will be straight with you, sir. I have proffered my advice to Dr Palmer, stating quite firmly that the most suitable man in all England to speak on his behalf would be Mr Serjeant Wilkins, in view of the fact that he enjoyed a medical education before taking to the Law.’

My old friend Charlie Wilkins, former strolling player, circus act, itinerant preacher, and, for a while, a practising chemist. I nodded gravely, as Smith went on.

‘I confidently expect that Serjeant Wilkins would be able to handle the abstruse medical evidence that is expected to be produced by the prosecution better than any other.’ Smith paused, inspected his hands, locked together in his lap. He frowned. ‘But I
fear that Dr Palmer has other views.’

I made no reply but held the solicitor’s glance and waited. John Smith shuffled a little uncomfortably in the chair. ‘Dr Palmer is well aware of your reputation in … ah … sensation cases. Moreover, it seems that when he faced you recently in the matter of the forged endorsements he was … ah … impressed.’

Impressed the wily Dr Palmer might have been, but I suspected it was because he had also heard other rumours concerning my own personal experiences in the matter of horse racing, ladies of easy virtue, bill discounting and debts.

I was silent for a little while, pretending to consider the matter. After a while I rose, locked my hands behind my back, strolled to the window and looked out towards the Temple Gardens. I did not have an uninterrupted view from my chambers: guttering and the edge of a roof obscured most of the view, though I was able to discern a leaden strip of the Thames and a few scrubby trees above the muddy flats that led down to the Temple landing. After a few minutes’ silence, I turned back to the expectant Birmingham solicitor.

‘I fear I must decline the brief. I have already been instructed by the Treasury and will represent the Crown, alongside the Attorney General. So I suggest you stick with Serjeant Wilkins. But your visit is opportune: I wanted to see you regarding other matters. I have caused certain inquiries to be made at Rugeley and Stafford.’

Smith’s wide-spaced eyes narrowed a little, but he waited in silence.

‘I won’t dwell upon Dr Palmer’s racing losses or the general state of his financial affairs,’ I went on smoothly, ‘but I would remark upon the noticeable number of deaths among people of his acquaintance, such as his unfortunate children, his mother-in-law, his wife, his brother … and there is, of course, the matter of his attempts to insure the lives of most of these adults with at least four separate assurance societies. This … ah … background has
caused considerable comment in the local area.’

‘Common gossip can hardly be restrained in matters such as these,’ Smith averred tightly.

‘That is true,’ I admitted. ‘But it seems to me to raise a certain problem. The trial will be held at Stafford. From the information I have received, while there are numerous acquaintances of Dr Palmer in Rugeley who will swear to his probity and offer strong support for his defence, the situation is somewhat different in Stafford. There, local feeling is strongly against the good doctor. The gossip swirls around readily; many believe already in the guilt of Dr Palmer on the basis of the old adage that there can be no smoke without fire, and there exists a great deal of, shall we say, prejudgment?’

‘The situation is indeed unfortunate,’ Smith admitted.

‘Particularly since the members of the jury will be drawn from the local area, if the trial is to be heard in Stafford.’

The silence that followed grew. I settled myself back in my chair, steepled my fingers, observed the Birmingham solicitor. At last, with furrowed brow, he sighed. ‘I agree, it is possible there will be difficulty with the selection of the jury. Many people are likely to be somewhat prejudiced.’

‘Which would suggest to me,’ I said carefully, ‘that Dr Palmer is unlikely to obtain a fair hearing at Stafford.’

John Smith sniffed, and scratched at his cheek. ‘There’s not much we can do about that. If we—’

I held up my hand, interrupting him. ‘The Crown wants a level playing field,’ I lied. ‘The concept of a fair trial is deeply entrenched in English Law. The Attorney General and I consider a case could and should be made for the removal of the hearing to a location other than Stafford. On the ground of avoidance of local prejudice.’