They Hanged My Saintly Billy (39 page)

The
Doctor
answered:
'Good,
Ma'am!
That
means
I'll
get longer
odds.
I'm
putting
my
whole
sack
on
The
Chicken.'

At
about
10.30
p.m.,
Mrs
Brooks
sent
a
servant
to
Dr
Palmer, requesting
a
private
word
with
him.
When
he
agreed,
the
servant showed
her
upstairs.
She
found
him
standing
in
the
corridor, holding
a
tumbler,
which
seemed
to
contain
a
small
quantity
of water,
close
against
the
gas-light,
and
examining
it.
Though
Dr Palmer
heard
her
corning,
he
continued
to
hold
the
tumbler
in the
same
position,
now
and
th
en
shaking
it.

'Dirty
weather
tonight,'
remarked
Mrs
Brooks.

'Yes,
the
running
will
be
agreeably
soft
tomorrow,'
he
answered.
'It
should
suit
The
Chicken.
He
loves
mud
so
much,
I have
a
mind
to
rename
him
The
Duckling.
Excuse
me,
I'll
be
with you
presentl
y.'

He
went
into
his
bedroom
and,
emerging
half
a
minute
later, carried
the
same
tumbler
into
the
sitting-room
where
Cook, Myatt
and
Cheshire
sat
drinking
convivially.
Mrs
Brooks
waited outside
until
he
fetched
her
a
similar
tumbler
full
of
brandy
and water,
which
she
drank
without
any
ill
consequences.
They
discussed
Lord
Alfred's
chances
in
low
tones,
and
the
Doctor
told her:
'Do
as
I
do,
and
remember
me
when
you
win!
I'm
still backing
The
Chicken.'
The
remainder
of
their
conversation
was private,
and
may
well
have
been
sentimental;
which
would account
for
Dr
Palmer's
disappearance
from
The
Raven
between midnight
and
nine-diirty.

According
to
Mrs
Brooks's
statement
at
the
Old
Bailey,
many racing
men
whom
she
knew
were
seized
by
nausea
that
Wednesday,
and
vomited
their
dinners,
and
there
was
talk
of
a
poisoned water
supply.
She
added:
'I
assumed
Dr
Palmer
to
be
mixing
a cooling
drink
when
he
stood
in
the
corridor.'
The
Prosecution's case
is
that
the
liquid
was
water
doctored
with
tartar
emetic, which
is
a
form
of
antimony;
and
that
Dr
Palmer
poured
this colourless
poison
into
Cook's
tumbler.
The
Defence
contends that
he
held
up
to
th
e
light
a
glass
of
the
city's
drinking
water,
in the
hope
of
detecting
a
cloudiness
winch
might
explain
the
general sickness.
However,
we
accept
neither
theory,
since
Mrs
Brooks has
since
privately
told
Will
Saunders,
the
trainer:
'Billy
Palmer was
hinting
in
dumb-show
that
Lord
Alfred
would
be
made "safe"
with
a
drug
of
his
own
concoction.
I
acted
on
this
hint;

but
whether
he
deceived
me,
or
whether
Lord
Derby's
stablemen
were
too
wide-awake,
my
people
can't
find
out.'
At
any rate,
Lord
Alfred
stayed
un-nobblcd,
The
Chicken
displayed
no liking
for
mud,
and
Dr
Palmer
lost
several
hundred
pounds.

On
the
Thursday
evening,
the
races
over,
Dr
Palmer,
Cook, Cheshire,
and
Myatt
caught
th
e
express
train
to
Stafford,
and thence
went
together
by
fly
to
Rugeley,
where
the
Doctor
engaged
a
room
at
The
Talbot
Arms
Hotel
for
Cook.
If
we
ar
e
to

The Talbot Arms, Rug
eley, the Scene of Cook's Death

believe
Mr
Herring,
th
e
betting-agent,
who
had
attended
the
Pole
star
dinner,
Cook
asked
him
on
the
Thursday
morning:
'Don't you
th
ink
Palmer
drugged
me
last
night?'

'I
shouldn't
like
to
venture
an
opinion,'
Herring
answered, 'but
if
you
so
mistrust
him,
why
are
you
going
to
Rugeley
with him
tonight?'

Cook,
Mr
Herring
declares,
replied
sadly:
'I
really
must
go there:
you
don't
know
all.'

Mr
Herring,
alias
Mr
Howard,
is
held
in
high
esteem
by
his clients,
and
we
should
be
prepared
to
accept
his
word;
save
that he
told
this
story
(which
makes
remarkably
little
sense)
while smarting
under
a
natural
resentment.
Dr
Palmer
had,
by
then, swindled
him
out
of
a
large
sum
of
money.

Perhaps
the
following
light-hearted
account
of
Mr
Cook's
illness at
Shrewsbury,
which
appeared
in
a
London
newspaper
on
the
last day
of
the
Meeting,
may
not
be
far
from
the
truth:

After
indulging
freely
in
the
foreign
wines
of
Shrewsbury,
the owner
of
Polestar
called
for
brandy
and
water
to
restore
his
British stolidity.
Tossing
off
his
glass,
he
grumbled
that
there
was
something in
it,
and
complained
of
a
burned
throat.
Perhaps
those
who
have drunk
strong
brandy
and
water
with
similar
haste
may
recognize
the sensation;
perhaps
also,
like
Mr
Cook,
they
have
vomited
afterwards. Mr
Cook
bolted
his
brandy
and
water
down
at
Dr
Palmer's
challenge and
bolted
it
up
again
when
it
encountered
the
cold
champagne. That
night
he
was
very
drunk,
and
very
sick,
and
very
ill.
His dinner
he
cast
into
a
basin;
his
money
he
deposited
with
his
friend Mr
Ishmael
Fisher,
a
sporting
City
wine
merchant,
expressing
his
belief
at
the
same
time
that
Dr
Palmer
had
dosed
him
for
the
sake
of his
money.
If
such
had
been
the
Doctor's
intention,
would
he
not have
followed
his
victim
from
the
room
and
kept
close
to
him
all night?
But
he
never
went
near
the
ailing
Mr
Cook,
a
neglect
that certainly
shows
how
hollow
was
his
friendship,
yet
proves
his
innocence;
for
a
guilty
man
would
have
been
much
more
officious.
The next
morning,
Mr
Cook
looked
very
ill,
as
men
are
apt
to
do
after excessive
vinous
vomiting,
but
his
drunken
suspicions
of
Dr
Palmer had
evaporated
with
the
fumes
of
the
brandy,
and
they
were
again friends
and
brother-sportsmen.