The Devil's Gentleman (25 page)

47

A
s the dominant news story of the day, the Great Poison Mystery continued to inspire copycat crimes, including one whose intended victim was another man named Cornish—Adelbert D. Cornish of Lewiston, Maine, a judge at the municipal court.

In the fall of 1898, a sour-tempered landlord named George W. Pierce was arrested on an assault charge by the town marshal, Herbert Teel, and brought before Judge Cornish. A plea bargain was eventually struck, but Pierce became convinced that he had been “sold out” by his lawyer, W. H. Newell.

A few months later, Judge Cornish found a bag of sugar on his doorstep, ostensibly left there as a gift. His suspicions aroused, he turned it over to a chemistry professor named Robinson at Bowdoin College, who found so much arsenic in the sugar that “a single spoonful would kill a man.” Cornish immediately alerted Marshal Teel, who revealed that he, too, had recently received an anonymous gift—a bottle of whiskey. Fortunately for Teel, he had stuck the liquor in a cabinet without sampling any. Upon analysis by Professor Robinson, it also turned out “to contain arsenic in large quantities.”

Several juvenile neighbors of Lawyer Newell weren’t quite so lucky. Finding a box of candy on the driveway leading to Newell’s stables, they snuck a few pieces and came close to dying. In the end, the police determined that the source of all three of these lethal “gifts” was the embittered George Pierce, who was promptly arrested and charged with several counts of attempted murder.
¹

While the small-town judge from Maine suddenly found himself on the front pages—
ANOTHER CORNISH IN POISON MYSTERY
, trumpeted the headline in the
World
—his namesake in New York was coming under increasing attack by the Manhattan DA’s office. Any doubts that District Attorney Asa Bird Gardiner and his assistants were “ranged against Harry Cornish” (as the
Journal
put it) were dispelled on Wednesday, when several witnesses were called to offer damaging testimony against the athletic director.

Rumors that Mrs. Molineux would take the stand brought an extra crush of people to the courthouse that morning. They were destined to be disappointed, since neither Roland nor Blanche put in an appearance. Still, the day was not lacking in interest.

A dramatic high point occurred during the questioning of Dr. Edwin Hitchcock, the first physician to be called to Mrs. Adams’s apartment on the day of her death. According to Hitchcock, he had announced at once that “a diabolical crime had been committed” and asked Cornish if he had any enemies who might send him poisoned bromo-seltzer. This was a direct contradiction of Cornish, who was on record as stating that he had not suspected foul play until several days later. Indeed, to more than one observer, the questions addressed to Hitchcock seemed expressly designed to expose Cornish as a liar.
²

Hitchcock also revealed that Mrs. Adams’s daughter, Florence Rodgers, had taken him aside that morning and asked if her mother’s death could be “kept as quiet as possible.” She seemed particularly anxious that it not be reported by the press.

For anyone closely following the case, Hitchcock’s testimony seemed to support one especially lurid theory that had been bandied about in the yellow papers: that the womanizing Harry Cornish and his attractive roommate, Mrs. Rodgers, were involved in an affair and had plotted to eliminate her disapproving mother.

It is no wonder that Cornish himself sat through Hitchcock’s testimony scowling at the witness. Or that his elderly parents—who had traveled to New York to offer their moral support—looked so exceedingly glum.

By contrast, General Molineux and his son’s attorney, Bartow Weeks, wore expressions of undiluted satisfaction. When the day’s proceedings were over, they left the courtroom together with broad smiles on their faces.
³

In the following days, Osborne called other witnesses who (as one headline put it) gave “the lie to Cornish.”
⁴
John McIntyre—Harry’s friend in the district attorney’s office—testified that he, too, had immediately suspected foul play in Mrs. Adams’s death and had said so to Cornish within hours of her murder. Dr. Hitchcock’s colleague, E. S. Potter, went so far as to suggest that Cornish had lied about drinking the poison. Potter declared that he “did not observe any signs of sickness upon Cornish while I was in the house”—a claim supported by another witness, who testified that he had seen Cornish eating an apple that morning.
⁵

According to Potter, moreover, he had noticed
two
tumblers on Mrs. Adams’s dining room table when he arrived at the apartment. One contained the remainder of the deadly bromo-seltzer solution; the other was filled with what appeared to be water. Potter’s implication seemed to be that Cornish had only pretended to sample the lethal concoction, when, in fact, he had actually sipped from the water glass.
⁶

By the end of the week, Cornish’s credibility was in such tatters that even Hearst’s
Journal
—which had, from the start, been relentless in its persecution of Roland Molineux—seemed to have changed its position. On Friday, the paper ran a remarkable piece, deploring the very different kinds of justice meted out to poor black residents of the city and to people like Harry Cornish.

Highlighted within a little box at the top page, the article drew a pointed comparison between two current tragedies. On the one hand, there was the pitiable case of Mrs. Mary Hubbard, a destitute “negress” who had “notified the Charity and Police departments in Brooklyn on Wednesday that she had rolled over on her baby in her sleep and smothered it to death. She alleged that it was an accident and asked for aid to bury the body.” And how had the authorities responded to Mrs. Hubbard? “
SHE WAS LOCKED UP AT ONCE IN THE GATES AVENUE POLICE STATION ON A CHARGE OF MURDER
,” the paper exclaimed in capital letters.

In striking contrast, there was the case of Harry Cornish, a well-connected athlete and clubman, who “gave to Mrs. Kate Adams, December 28 last, a dose of poisoned bromo-seltzer, which killed her. His claim is that the stuff had been sent to him by some unknown enemy and that the poisoning of Mrs. Adams was unintentional.” And what had happened to Cornish? “
HE IS STILL AT LARGE, FIFTY DAYS AFTER THE TRAGEDY
!” declared the paper in outraged tones.
⁷

By this point, even Cornish—who belonged to the tight-lipped “never-complain-never-explain” school of manhood—was so beleaguered that he felt compelled to issue a public statement. Published in the papers under the headline
CORNISH SAYS SOME THINGS LOOK BAD, BUT HE CAN EXPLAIN
, the statement perfectly captured the blunt, combative style of the man:

I appreciate that there are many points brought out in the testimony that make it look bad for me, but I am not losing my head or my nerve, and don’t intend to. Remember, I have not had my chance to talk yet, but I am carefully noting all that is said, and matters will look very different when I get through telling my story.

All I want is the chance to tell my story, fully, freely, and without interruption, as Molineux was allowed to tell his. Mr. Osborne has promised me that I shall have that chance.

No, I will not tell now what I will testify to when put on the stand. What I want to do is clear up some things that now look very bad. For instance, much has been made of…the testimony of Dr. Potter, that there were two glasses on the table when he got to the Adams flat. That agrees entirely with my statement to the police and my testimony on the stand. Mrs. Adams brought in two glasses, one empty and the other half-filled with water, for me to mix the bromo-seltzer. I put the bromo-seltzer in the empty glass and poured the water in upon it.

Of course, the District Attorney has the right to proceed as he sees fit, but I promise you that when I get on that stand again and tell my story, the atmosphere will be very much cleared.
⁸

Cornish would soon have his day in court. But first, the public would finally be treated to an impressive performance by the glamorous star witness they had waited so long to see.

48

I
n her late-life memoirs, composed nearly forty years after the fact, Blanche describes herself as feeling so anxious and confused on the day of her testimony that her state of mind bordered on panic. Written in a breathless, fragmentary style, the passage is meant to convey both the dizzying unreality of the moment and her own tumultuous emotions:

There is a low confused murmur of voices. The wave of sound rises, grows louder. There is so much excitement it is confusing. I am in a daze. The coroner reaches over and pounds loudly with his gavel for silence. There before me is the prosecuting attorney; and there, back of him, a blurred sea of faces. How everybody stares! They sit forward in their seats. How crowded it is, and hot. I can hardly breathe. Mr. Osborne is asking me questions. They seem quite rude and impertinent. I wonder if I am coherent. I really don’t know in what manner I am replying to him. It becomes confusing, tiresome. I see no point to all the questions. To get away—out of that horrible stuffy courtroom, to escape that crowd. God, how inquisitive and curious they are, all those people! Sensation-seekers, watching to see if I will writhe under the dissecting knife of the State Prosecutor’s queries. How long will this inquisition last? What a fantastic, what a grotesque and impossible contretemps! O God! O my God! I am dreaming it—I
must
be dreaming it!
¹

It is a vivid (if characteristically overwrought) self-portrait of Blanche as a young woman teetering on the verge of a nervous collapse as she undergoes an agonizing public ordeal.

Eyewitness accounts of that day, however—Tuesday, February 21, 1899—present a very different picture. Those who saw her on the stand were unanimous in their depiction of Blanche as a person of exceptional poise, whose testimony, far from being tongue-tied or stammering, was so smooth and assured that it struck many observers as carefully rehearsed.

She was waiting in an anteroom with Roland and his parents when Bartow Weeks appeared at the doorway. “It is time, Mrs. Molineux,” he said.

Roland offered her his arm. Then, with her in-laws preceding her, she and her husband emerged from the room. The courtroom was only a few steps away, but the hallway was so crammed that a policeman had to clear a pathway through the crowd.

All eyes turned toward her as she entered the courtroom. Her appearance came as a surprise to those whose fantasies had been formed by the suggestive accounts in the yellow press, where she was invariably portrayed as a female of dark and irresistible allure. She was, to begin with, much larger than anyone expected—several inches taller, at five feet ten, than her husband. Though handsomely proportioned, she struck more than one observer as “not especially graceful in carriage or movement.” And with her somewhat long face, sharp nose, large mouth, and glass eye, she was by no means conventionally beautiful.
²

Still, she was dressed in high style, in a fashionable black gown and an elegant black cloak lined with black Persian wool. Her black, turban-shaped hat was trimmed with violets. She wore white kid gloves and carried a large sable muff with several tails dangling from the front.
³

Taking a seat at the front of the room, she seemed perfectly at ease. When Roland leaned close to whisper something in her ear, she smiled broadly, revealing a set of large, white, perfectly formed teeth. A few moments later, her name was called, and an expectant hush fell over the crowd as she rose from her place.

The image of Blanche as a Circe-like enchantress made for such good copy that some newsmen continued to foster it. According to one reporter, she “swept to the witness chair in a shimmer of silk.” And when James Osborne began to question her, she answered in a “voice as low and musical as a lyre.” Whether Blanche really possessed the vocal sorcery of a Siren is open to doubt. Still, everyone agreed that she spoke in a clear, well-modulated voice that carried the hint of an affected British accent.
⁴

As he had done with her husband, Osborne prefaced his questions with elaborate apologies. It pained him, he said, to pry into such private matters, and he did so only with the greatest reluctance. Indeed, Osborne often seemed genuinely discomfited, resorting to prim circumlocutions that brought audible snickers from the spectators. Early on in his questioning, for example, he wanted to know when Roland “began paying addresses” to Blanche.

“I do not quite know what you mean,” Blanche said with a smile.

Osborne seemed slightly flustered. “I don’t know how to express myself in any other way,” he said.

“Do you mean,” Blanche asked, “when did we become engaged?”

“No, not exactly,” said Osborne. “I mean, when did he begin paying addresses to you that in your mind led you to think that he might propose to you?”

“We were always very good friends from the time we first met,” Blanche said pleasantly.

“Well, when
did
Mr. Molineux first propose to you?” Osborne asked.

“I think it was on Thanksgiving, 1897.”

“Was Mr. Barnet paying you attentions at that time?” said Osborne.

“Why, we were all very good friends,” Blanche said with a little laugh.

“Yes, I know,” said Osborne. “But was Barnet paying you, let us say, heavy attentions?”

Osborne’s priggish diction brought another burst of laughter from the spectators, while Blanche raised her sable muff to her lips to conceal her own giggles.

“Now, Mrs. Molineux,” said Osborne after a moment. “These questions embarrass me just as much as they do you. Please tell me whether or not, in any sense of the word, Barnet and Molineux were rivals.”

“Never,” Blanche said.
⁵

Throughout her time on the witness stand, Blanche remained utterly self-composed. She spoke easily, without the slightest hesitation, giving replies that completely supported her husband’s testimony. Indeed, as more than one observer noted, her answers so closely matched Roland’s that she appeared to have been coached. She did not falter even when Osborne turned to the most potentially damaging piece of evidence—the emotional note she had written to Barnet during his final illness.

Osborne began by reading the letter aloud: “‘I am distressed to learn of your illness. I arrived home Saturday. I am so exceedingly sorry to know that you have been indisposed. Won’t you let me know when you are able to be about? I want so much to see you. Is it that you do not believe me? If you would but let me prove to you my sincerity. Do not be cross any more and accept, I pray you, my very best wishes. Yours, Blanche.’”

Since this letter had been blazoned on the front pages of virtually every newspaper in the city, its contents came as no surprise to the listeners in the courtroom. Nevertheless, in her memoirs, Blanche claims to have been caught completely off guard by Osborne’s introduction of this document:

And now—Good God!—they are questioning me about Barnet! Mr. Osborne has a letter in his hand. It is the letter I wrote Barney while he was ill. A letter written to Barney—what has
that
to do with this, this inquiry into the death of the Adams woman? What possible bearing on all this was my friendship with Henry Barnet? Wait! They are hinting at a love affair between myself and the man who had been Roland’s friend! What does it mean? How bewildering it is. I cannot understand.
⁶

Again, Blanche’s melodramatic account is in striking contrast to the official record. Far from being flustered and confused by Osborne’s reading of the letter, she was clearly prepared for it, and parried every question he posed with remarkable finesse.

“What did you mean by writing, ‘Is it that you do not believe me?’” asked Osborne when he finished reciting the letter.

“I had no especial meaning,” came the breezy reply. “It was simply a form of speech.”

“And ‘Don’t be cross with me anymore’?—what did you mean by that?”

“I had written to him last June and he never sent me a reply,” Blanche said in the same offhanded tone. “I did not know whether he was piqued at something or not, but I concluded that there must be something the matter, so I just wrote, ‘Don’t be cross with me.’”

“Then what does this mean?—‘If you would but let me prove my sincerity?’”

“It was just a form of expression, rather awkwardly put,” Blanche said.

“You signed yourself ‘Blanche,’” said Osborne, as though to imply that such informality indicated an unusual degree of intimacy between the two.

“Yes,” Blanche said with a smile. “All three of us—my husband, Barney, and I—called each other by our first names.”

After another twenty minutes of similarly unenlightening testimony, Blanche was dismissed and the proceedings adjourned for the day.

For her performance, Blanche received high praise from Roland, his parents, and his attorneys. The press reviews were decidedly more mixed. Everyone agreed that she had comported herself with admirable aplomb. But there was a general consensus that she had done nothing to help clear up the mystery. If anything, her testimony reinforced the popular perception of her as a dangerously cunning female, capable of twisting any susceptible male—in this case, the public prosecutor, James Osborne—around her little finger.

As one reporter, reflecting the casual misogyny of the era, put it, Mrs. Blanche Molineux had shown herself to be “clever beyond the ordinary run of her sex.”
⁷