They Hanged My Saintly Billy (37 page)

DEATH
AT
THE
TALBOT
ARMS

T
HE
evidence
elicited
at
the
Coroner's
inquest
on
John Parsons
Cook,
who
died
at
The
Talbot
Arms
Hotel,
Rugeley, on
November
20th, 1855,
exactly
a
week
after
Pole
star's
capture of
the
Shrewsbury
Handicap,
has
now
been
supplemented
by further
evidence
elicited
at
Dr
Palmer's
trial
for
murder—some of
it,
however,
plainly
irreconcilable
with
the
original
depositions made
by
the
same
witnesses.

Dr
Palmer,
it
appears,
owned
so
little
ready
cash
on
the
opening day
of
the
Shrewsbury
Meeting,
that
he
borrowed
twenty-five pounds
for
the
trip
from
a
Rugeley
butcher.
He
later
claimed
to have
put
himself
in
funds
by
borrowing
another
hundred
and fifty
on
the
racecourse
and
laying
it
on
Polestar
at
seven
to
one; yet,
in
fact,
he
made
no
cash
profit
at
all,
only
wi
nning
back
two hundred
and
ten
pounds
from
a
Mr
Butler
to
whom
he
had
owed seven
hundred
since
the
Liverpool
Meeting.
As
soon
as
the
race had
been
run,
Dr
Palmer
took
train
back
to
Rugeley,
where
he found
two
letters
waiting
for
him
at
his
house.
There
was
the one
from
Pratt
(mentioned
by
the
Attorney-General),
threatening legal
proceedings
against
his
mother,
if
he
would
not
at
once
pay the
fourteen
hundred
pounds
now
due
and
covered
by
her
acceptance.
The
other
came
from
a
Stafford
girl
named
Jane
Bergen, whom
he
had
got
with
child
during
Eliza
Tharm's
pregnancy, and
for
whom
he
had
procured
an
abortion.
She
possessed
thirty-four
love-letters
written
by
him
in
most
lascivious
language,
and threatened
that
she
would
show
them
to
her
father
unless
he
paid fifty
pounds
for
their
return.
At
first,
she
had
priced
the
collection at
one
hundred
pounds—a
sum
which,
he
told
her,
far
exceeded their
worth.

Elated
by
Polestar's
victory,
Cook
asked
a
few
of
his
friends
to celebrate
it
with
him
by
dining
at
The
Raven
Hotel,
Shrewsbury; where
two
or
three
bottles
of
champagne
were
consumed.
This was
Tuesday,
November
13
th.
He
retired
to
bed
in
good
health
and
spirits,
not
having
drunk
much;
and
the
next
day
rose
cheerfully
and
visited
the
course
again.
There
he
found
Dr
Palmer
come back
from
Rugeley
and
reproached
him
for
not
having
attended the
Polestar
dinner.
That
night,
Wednesday,
November
14th,
at about
eleven
o'clock,
one
Mr
Ishmae
l
Fisher,
a
wine
merchant
of Victoria
Street,
Holborn—but
also
a
betting-agent
who
usually collected
Cook's
winnings,
or
paid
his
losses,
each
settling
day
at Tattersall's—decided
to
call
on
him.
Fisher
was
also
lodging
at The
Raven.
When
he
entered
the
sitting-room
which
Cook
and Dr
Palmer
shared,
he
found
the
two
of
them
seated
at
table
over brandy
and
water,
in
the
company
of
George
Myatt
and
Samuel Cheshire.

Cook
invited
Fisher
to
join
the
party,
and
then
turned
to
ask Dr
Palmer:
'Will
you
take
another
glass?'

The
Doctor
replied:
'Not
until
you
down
yours.
You
must
play fair,
old
cock—drink
for
drink,
and
no
heel-taps.'

'Oh,
that's
soon
done,'
cried
Cook,
and
seizing
the
tumbler, half
full
of
strong
brandy
and
water,
which
stood
on
the
table before
him,
tossed
it
off
at
a
gulp,
leaving
perhaps
a
teaspoonful at
the
bottom
of
the
glass.

A
minute
later,
he
complained
that
the
grog
tasted
queer,
and looked
accusingly
at
Dr
Palmer.

The
Doctor
reached
for
Cook's
tumbler,
sipped
the
little liquor
remaining,
rolled
it
around
his
tongue,
and
exclaimed: 'Come,
what's
the
game,
Johnny?
There's
no
taste
but
brandy here.'

Cook
then
made
some
remark,
about
how
dreadfully
his
throat had
been
burned,
which
was
interrupted
by
a
second
knock
on the
door.
Anothe
r
wine
merchant,
named
Read,
whose
tavern near
Farringdon
Market
is
a
favourite
haunt
of
many
sporting men,
entered
to
congratulate
Cook
on
his
success.
Dr
Palmer, pushing
the
glass
towards
Read
and
Fisher,
said:
'Cook
fancies
that
there's
something
in
this
brandy
and
water.
Taste
it!
I've just
done
so
myself.'

Read
laughed
and
answered:
'It's
easy
enough
to
say
"Taste it!",
but
you've
swigged
the
lot
between
you.
Fetch
me
more
of
the
same
brew,
and
I'll
give
you
my
professional
verdict.'

'Well,
at
least
smell
it,'
the
Doctor
urged
him.
Read
smelt Cook's
glass,
and
could
detect
no
odour
but
that
of
spirits.
A
new decanter
of
the
same
brandy
was
now
sent
for,
and
Cook
mixed
the
grog
with
water
poured
from
the
same
jug
as
before.
All
the guests
rose
to
toast
Polestar,
a
buzz
of
jovial
talk
ensued,
and Cook's
suspicions
were
forgotten.