The Poisonous Seed (29 page)

He gulped.

‘Well? You hand is on the holy book, Mr Munson, please do not lie!’

‘I —’. The terror in his eyes was almost tangible.

‘It was you, was it not?’ she demanded. ‘I spoke to Ada yesterday and she remembered that when she was waiting for the prescription she heard my father making that that little ‘um-hum’ sound, as he always did when supervising one of us, but never did when he was dispensing medicines himself. When he saw his writing in the prescription book, he was confused enough to believe that it was he who had made up the medicine, but it was not him at all, was it, Mr Munson?’

Herbert bowed down, unable to face her.

‘Was it?’ she insisted, ‘I am asking you the question! Look at me!’

After a short pause he raised his head. Tears were running down his cheeks and for a few moments he was unable to speak. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered at last.

Frances, a girl endowed with more than the general amount of sympathy for her fellow creatures in distress, felt none for the miserable object before her. ‘Yet you allowed him to believe that it was he who had made the medicine, and he who was under suspicion,’ she went on, angrily.

‘There was nothing wrong with the medicine!’ wailed Herbert.

She was almost shouting now. ‘You allowed my father to be suspected; you said nothing to me, to Mr Rawsthorne, to the court or to the police!’

‘But it made no difference,’ he whispered.

‘Oh?’ said Frances in cold fury. ‘Kindly explain to me how it made no difference.’

He wiped his face with the back of his hand. ‘Whether he did it or I, he was the qualified man, and responsible. My hand, under his supervision is the same thing as if it had been his hand.’

‘It was not the same thing at all to him, or to me!’ said Frances.

‘And —,’ he hesitated.

‘Yes, do go on, Mr Munson, I am all agog to hear what you will say next!’

He swallowed, and tried to calm himself, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his face and nose. ‘I think it was plain that your father would have retired very soon, and then the whole incident would have been of no moment. I, on the other hand —’

She gave him a look of utter contempt. ‘So now we have it. You let an ailing man take the blame in order to protect yourself. You never think of
anyone
but yourself. That was how I knew it was you who had taken the phial of
strychnia
. You were the only person with a motive to do so.’

He gazed at her pleadingly. ‘I am very sorry. I know I should not have done it, but —,’ there was a long pause during which he recognised by her implacable expression that he might better have tried to melt a block of cast iron. ‘What will you do now, Miss Doughty?’ he said anxiously.

She sighed. ‘Believe me, I have given that a great deal of thought. And I have come to the conclusion that it would be of no benefit to tell another person of what has been revealed here. Whether or not my father made up the prescription, he imagined that he had done so, and the public will always suspect that he took his own life from guilt, something I will never believe. What I need is proof that Mr Garton’s death was nothing to do with his prescription. That is what I will seek.’ She rose. ‘My uncle will be here in an hour to convey us to the inquest. Please ensure that you are ready.’

Herbert looked intensely relieved. ‘You are very generous, Miss Doughty.’

‘Not generous, Mr Munson,’ she said coldly. ‘Pleasant as it would be to see you arrested for the lie you told at Mr Garton’s inquest, I do not think the business can afford publicity of that nature. Oh, and there is one further matter I should mention. The personal subject we discussed recently – I would take it as a very great favour if it was never referred to again.’ She left the room.

Cornelius arrived promptly at half past nine, accompanied by Mrs Scorer. She said nothing about the loss of William’s fortune, but there was a noticeable air of triumph as she gazed at Frances, ill-concealed under a mask of pity. Her own loss of two hundred pounds was well compensated for by the knowledge that Frances would not enjoy a legacy to which she had felt at least partially entitled. In the interests of economy, Frances, her uncle and aunt, Herbert, and Sarah all managed to squeeze into a four-wheeler. The misty streets were almost silent, and Frances was thankful to see that there was no disturbance outside the court, although it was uncomfortably crowded within.

Cornelius asked her kindly if she wanted to sit elsewhere than the body of the court but she shook her head. She sat beside him, taking comfort from his calming presence. It was Dr Collin who gave evidence first, and testified that the lungs, heart and brain tissue of the deceased showed that he had died from inhalation of chloroform, and that there was no disease or any other condition that could have been the cause of death.

‘Doctor, tell the court how long you have been the deceased’s medical man?’ asked Dr Hardwicke.

‘More than twenty years,’ said Collin.

‘And had you noticed any change in his mental state in the last months of his life?’

‘Mr Doughty’s only son died after a protracted illness in October of last year,’ said Collin. ‘He took it very badly, as one might imagine. For a time he was too unwell to work, but in recent weeks his condition had improved.’

‘Was he very despondent?’ asked the coroner. ‘You understand the reason for these questions. It is distressing to the family, but unfortunately necessary.’

‘He was, of course, greatly afflicted by grief, but not, in my opinion, in such a state as to give rise to any anxiety that he would take his own life,’ said Collin, confidently.

Hardwicke nodded. ‘As you are aware, in the last two weeks it has been suggested that Mr Doughty made an error in a prescription which cost the life of one of his customers, Mr Percival Garton. On the very day of his death, Mr Doughty attended the inquest on Mr Garton, which found that he was at fault in the matter. Clearly, this could have affected his mind. Do you believe that to be so?’

‘No, I do not,’ said Collin. ‘Mr Doughty suffered from a defect of the memory in which he was able to recall perfectly events which took place in the distant past and also all his skills as a chemist, but on recent matters he was vague. I do not think the death of Mr Garton, tragic as it was, preyed upon his mind at all.’ A whisper of comment flowed through the body of the court. Hardwicke peered at the onlookers and they fell silent.

‘What is your opinion of the practice of inducing sleep by dropping chloroform on a handkerchief and placing it over the face?’

‘I believe it to be extremely dangerous,’ said the doctor, ‘and always advise my patients against it. Unfortunately many do not heed that advice, and this is not the first inquest I have attended of someone who has expired from this practice. The lay public is quite unable to judge how to use chloroform. They are lulled into believing it safe because it is pleasant to take, but in fact nothing can be further from the truth. It is extremely easy to administer too great a dose.’ Frances saw the jurors glance at each other, and nod, and one or two of them scribbled notes.

‘To your knowledge, how long had the deceased been using chloroform in this way?’ asked Hardwicke.

‘About two years, I believe. Occasionally at first, and then more frequently. He suffered greatly from headaches and toothache and found it brought him relief.’

‘In your opinion, therefore, Dr Collin, do you believe Mr Doughty administered the chloroform to himself solely with the intention of procuring a refreshing sleep, or is there any evidence that he deliberately took his own life?’

‘It is my opinion,’ said Collin very firmly, ‘that there is no evidence whatsoever to suggest that Mr Doughty intended to take his own life.’

‘Very well, you may stand down.’

Sarah was the next to give evidence. She stated that on his return from attending Mr Garton’s inquest, William Doughty had been tired and complained of a headache, and she had helped him up to his room. The last time she had seen him alive he had been lying on his bed fully clothed. About twenty minutes later she had gone in to see how he was and found him with the handkerchief over his face. She had removed it, and as soon as she did so realised that he was dead, and sent for Dr Collin. She and Mr Munson had both made valiant efforts to revive her employer while waiting for the doctor, even though they had been certain that the situation was hopeless.

Frances was next to be called, and found herself under the sympathetic gaze of Dr Hardwicke. ‘Miss Doughty, I will keep this as brief as possible, and must apologise in advance for any distress it may cause you. Can you tell the court about your father’s state of mind in the weeks prior to his death?’

‘He was greatly grieved by the death of my brother, but in the last few weeks he was well enough to return to his work, something that meant a great deal to him. I saw many signs of improvement,’ said Frances. ‘I agree with Dr Collin that my father felt no personal guilt concerning the death of Mr Garton. There was nothing at all wrong with the medicine when it left our shop.’

‘I must remind you and the court,’ he said gently, ‘that you were not present when the prescription was made and cannot therefore give evidence on that point.’

‘Mr Munson said as much at the inquest, and he
was
present,’ insisted Frances.

Hardwicke raised his eyebrows. ‘Thank you, Miss Doughty,’ he said. ‘You may stand down.’

There were no more witnesses, and Hardwicke was just completing his notes prior to making his closing address, when, after a certain amount of conferring in the jury box, the foreman announced that they had come to a decision.

‘Please write it down,’ said Hardwicke, and a note was quickly scribbled and conveyed to him by an officer of the court. He glanced at it and nodded. ‘Very well, please indicate your verdict.’

‘We find that the death of Mr William Doughty was due to an overdose of chloroform administered by accident. And we further state that the public should be warned of the danger of the practice of sprinkling chloroform on a handkerchief to procure sleep.’

‘I concur,’ said Hardwicke. ‘The verdict of this court is death by misadventure.’

‘Well,’ said Mrs Scorer, as they left, ‘Thank goodness that is over! I am, of course, as distressed as anybody about poor William’s death, but it seems to me that the indignity of an inquest and having one’s private business discussed in the newspapers is almost as upsetting. Now let us have him decently buried and be done with it.’

On the way home, Cornelius advised Frances of the arrangements for the following day, the service at St Stephen’s and the interment at Kensal Green Cemetery.When she confessed that she had nothing in the house suitable for refreshments after the burial, he instructed her to buy what was necessary and send him the bill.

On arrival at Westbourne Grove, Frances politely invited her aunt and uncle in, but Mrs Scorer turned up her nose at the cold sausage and bread and butter that was to be the midday meal, and Cornelius took her home. It was almost a relief for Frances to be able to turn to rinsing out the boiling linens. As she worked, she listed in her mind all the things she felt she needed to know, and at the earliest opportunity transferred these thoughts to her notebook. When at last she was able to rest with a cup of tea she spread out the newspapers on the table and re-read them. One item that her eye had skipped over when she had first read it, suddenly stood out. When Garton’s death had first been reported it had been said that his oldest child was aged eight. Assuming the newspaper to be correct – a very great assumption, Frances knew – that could have meant anything between just eight and nearly nine. It had been Rhoda’s birthday the previous day, and, assuming it was her ninth, she was born on 25 January 1871, but Frances suddenly realised that this made no sense. According to Cedric, the Gartons had left Tollington Mill to consult a doctor about Mrs Garton’s inability to become a mother.They had come to London in August of 1870 and the treatment had been successful, Rhoda, said Cedric, being born within a year of their arrival. Yet if what he said was true, her birthday would have been between May and July. Frances puzzled over this, unsure if it meant anything. Had it been Rhoda’s eighth and not ninth birthday? Yet that made no sense either, as the interval between the Gartons’ arrival and her birth would have been far greater than a year. Had she misheard what Cedric had told her? As soon as she was able to find Tom, she sent him to see Ada, and ask how old Rhoda was. He was also instructed to deliver a note to Constable Brown. Surely, thought Frances, there must be amongst his father’s scrapbooks, some information about the criminal career of the infamous Lewis Cotter.

At the end of the day, Mr Jacobs departed, too polite to mention that there had been very little business. The fog still hung heavily over everything, and promised to continue to do so for some days. As Frances tried to do her mending by the light of a guttering candle, and Sarah rolled sheets of old wrapping paper into spills,Tom returned. ‘Nine,’ he said.

‘She is quite sure?’

‘Oh yes, remembers it like it was yesterday. No mistakin’.’ He hurried away.

Frances put down her mending. She could only conclude that the child had been expected before Henrietta left Tollington Mill. She looked at Sarah, realising that on such matters the maid was possibly the only female she could consult.

‘Sarah,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I know you have a number of nieces and nephews.’

‘Oh yes, Miss, any number, can’t count ‘em sometimes,’ said the maid, with a smile.

‘Because I need the answer to a question on a delicate matter.’ Frances took a deep breath, recalling a certain personal event in her life. She had been thirteen, and terrified. It was Sarah to whom she had run, crying, and not her aunt, Sarah who had comforted her and explained the common lot of women. ‘Is it possible,’ she asked, ‘for a lady to be expecting to become a mother in less than six months and not to know it?’

Sarah suddenly dropped her work and gaped at Frances in horror, and Frances suddenly realised what the maid must be thinking. She felt her face flush hotly. ‘No, Sarah, please be assured it is not myself I am talking of – that is quite impossible.’