They Hanged My Saintly Billy (48 page)

He told Dr Palmer that, according to the prison doctor, his pulse was regular, his looks
those of a healthy man, and the
re seemed no reason why he should not partake of this succulent soup.

'It's only that I have no appetite for coarse food,' Dr Palmer murmured faintly.

'Then, Sir,' cried
the
Governor, 'you shall choose between this spoon and that other instrument! I don't care a fig (let me be frank) whether you live or
die
, except in so far as my own appointment is concerned. But if I pander to your desire for self-extinction, my superiors will punish me severely; which I do not intend to happen. You have five minutes to decide whether you will drain your bowl, or oblige me to take compulsory measures. In the latter case, I shall summon a force of officers, of whom I have fifty at my orders, wedge open your jaws, drop the tube of this pump down
the
gullet, and pretty soon soup will be warming your stomach. It is by no means
the
pleasantest way of eating, but what other recourse have I?'

Dr Palmer said: 'I had not considered, Sir, that my loss of appetite might endanger your appointment here. And though I don't welcome your poor opinion of me—which I find unbecoming when I'm not yet pronoun
ced guilty, and won't be, neithe
r— nevertheless, if you insist, I'll consent to drink the damned beverage with your greasy spoon.'

He gave no further trouble in this respect, beyond asking one day that meals might be sent to him from his own kitchen. The Governor refused this, for fear poison might be conveyed in
the
dishes, but told h
im that he was at liberty to orde
r what victuals he pleased, with
in reason, for cooking in the debtors' kitchen. 'Ah, but it's not the same,' sighed Dr Palmer. 'Your prison cooks murder good food.'

'I trust at least that they do not poison it,' tartly retorted the Governor.

Meanwhile, numerous bills fell due which Dr Palmer could not, and old Mrs Palmer would not, me
et. One morning Mr Wright, a soli
citor from Birmingham, arrived at Dr Palmer's house and demanded admittance in virtue of a bill of sale to the amount of
£10,400
given by Palmer some six months before for his horses, furniture, and all other movable property.

Mr Bergen, the Rural Superintendent of Police, who was now charged
with
safeguarding the papers, drugs, and other contents of the house, refused to admit Mr Wright; however, one of Mr Wright's men presently gained an entry by breaking a pane of glass in the scullery window and unlatching it. Once inside the house, the Law protected Mr Wright, and arrangements were soon made for selling off the Doctor's effects by public auction.

We gather from Mrs Bennett, a next-door neighbour whose husband is a shoemaker, that if it had been Prince Albert's own sale there couldn't have been more folks about. They flocked in from Birmingham and all around, coming only to gaze, not to buy. The sale, according to the catalogue, should have occupied three days, but was got over in ten hours.

'The business was altogether too hurried,' Mrs Bennett told us. 'If the things had been brought out into the open air they would have fetched more; but the auctioneer didn't allow the bidders time. It was along of the crowds that tramped through the ho
use and prevented dealers from exam
ining the articles at leisure. Nobody could see what was what, and the auctioneer wanted to get done quickly; even so, a mort of small things got stolen as souvenirs. The books, most of them new and up to date, were almost given away. And the furniture was beautiful!'

Mr Fawcus, a cabinet-maker, who stood waiting for Mr Bennett to finish cobbling a pair of boots, agreed with Mrs Bennett. 'Yes, Sir, the furniture was very good indeed, and not mer
ely the pieces that I made at hi
s orders according to Sheraton's models. I know he paid forty guineas for a sideboard—that's large money —and sixteen for a chiffonier. He had excellent taste in furniture.'

Mrs Bennett fetched us the catalogue:
Contents of drawing-room: one fine-toned semi-grand pianoforte in rosewood by a celebrated London maker.
'Poor Mrs Palmer used to accompany herself on that, while singing Thomas Moore's Irish Songs,' Mrs Bennett said.' She had a sweet voice. But the pianoforte went for a song—no joke intended.'

Rosewood couch with spring seat, squab and pillow in blue damask, and six elegant rosewood chairs in suite
.
'My work,' said Mr Fawcus. 'Bought at the sale by Mr Bergen, the Rural Superintendent of Police, whose daughter took a fancy to them. He'd have bidden up to the original price, he would, but there was no competition —there isn't likely to be when Mr Bergen bids—so he got them cheap, and afterwards told me: "Fawcus, these people here, they don't know good stuff when they see it." He's a very knowing gentleman.'

Handsome mahogany bookcase, six foot by nine foot long, with plate-glass and sliding shelves
.
'That went at a better price to the Hon.

Mr Curzon's steward.'
Pair of handsome chimney-glasses
.
'Those were in the same lot,' remarked Mr Fawcus, 'big as chimney-pots, and real cut crystal.'

Contents of best bedroom: handsome German bedstead with panelled footboard, carved cornice andfringe, andfigured damask hangings
.
'Ah,' said Mrs Bennett, ' that's where poor Mrs Palmer bore her unfortunate children, and where she died, and where the Doctor was lying when arrested.'

'It's a good deal too heavy and fanciful for my taste,' confessed Mr Fawcus, 'but then I'm English, as you see. It was old Mrs Palmer's wedding gift to the Doctor, and she bought it back. I think she wished to show that she hasn't lost faith in her son, despite all the ugly rumours.'

'Which I don't believe, neither,' cried Mrs Bennett, 'whatever the Coroner may say, and the Judge, and the jury, and Captain Hatton, and Mr Bergen and all! It made my ears burn to hear some of the comments, dropped by those ill-mannered Birmingham folks as they roamed the house. They'd whisper: "That's where the wicked devil used to sleep with his mistresses." And when they came to the surgery,
the
remarks they passed about the bottles there was perfectly sinful!'

Contents of dining-room: eight fine Elizabethan carved oak chairs with seats upholstered in purple plush velvet. Also two valuable oil paintings: 'Charles Marlow, the
jockey, with Nettle' and ‘
Goldfinder
’
, Winner of the Queens Plate at Shrewsbury'
'Twenty-five shillings a chair, just imagine!' exclaimed Mr Fawcus, 'originally purchased by the Doctor for four guineas, and a bargain at that! And the pictures went for five shillings, the frames alone being worth a guinea.'

'All that I bought,' said Mrs Bennett, 'was a nice deal box containing fishing tackle and pills. The Police didn't seem to mind the pills being sold and, of course, I burned them in the grate to keep them out of the children's clutches. "A box of fishing tackle is a funny place to put pills in," the auctioneer told us. But the tackle was a bargain at a shilling. My husband enjoys his bit of fishing of a Sunday afternoon, and the box was handy for garden tools.'

'The only fair prices were paid for the Doctor's cellar,' chimed in Mr Fawcus. 'He had
222
gallons of home-brewed ale, according to the catalogue,
67
dozen of port, and
43
gallons of spirit. A very fine cellar for so abstemious a man. It never occurred to the innkeepers who bid for them that every bottle might contain rank poison; they were a deal less suspicious than the officers at Stafford Gaol.'

We strolled round to the back of the house, where the garden stretches—half an acre of land 'in very good fettle,' as Mr Fawcus called it. The low hedge dividing the courtyard from the garden has been carefully clipped, and the small garden in front of the house, with a little pile of imitation rock to spruce it up, is thoroughly well tended. Though we noticed at least six beds of leeks and spring onions, a patch about the size of his drawing-room carpet was all
the
space Dr Palmer devoted to flowers. The beds, cut out of the turf in curious shapes, such as stars and lozenges, contained only a few pinks and wallflowers.

We came across a well-built stable and coach-house with a pear-tree trained against the brick wall facing the noon sun, and a horseshoe nailed to the door. The large tank is of slate and clean rainwater flows into it for horses' drinking—soft water improves their health. In one corner, next a pigsty, a manure tank is sunk, into which the slush of
the
stable and piggery formerly drained; there being a pump to raise
the
liquid as it was required for the cultivation of vegetables. All these improvements to the property had been added by Dr Palmer.

Following the kitchen garden path, where clothes poles and the cord along them formed a kind of telegraph, we found a fine rhubarb bed, behind which grew forty gooseberry and currant bushes, all neatly pruned. And beyond these, we suddenly came on a gendeman in check coat and trousers sitting on an upturned oyster barrel. He rose and addressed us in a hoarse Manchester accent, pressing upon us a tradesman's card which we reproduce on the following page.

We thanked Mr Allen, but informed him that another day would suit us better. 'Oh, that's all right, bless you, Sir,' he said, 'I don't want for custom. The number of fashionably dressed folks who journey over here from
the
surrounding districts for a sight of Dr Palmer's house, barred and empty as it is, still astounds me. It's early yet for the rush, which don't commence much before noon. I do very well indeed from them, and take their portraits standing gainst the stable door,
with
one hand on the pear-tree to steady 'em. Yes, Sir, 'tis a superb place for my trade.

Dr Palmer's creditors had all gathered together like a flock of vultures, and on January
21st, 1856
,
his broodmares, horses in training and yearlings, came up for auction. We were present to witness that interesting occasion.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

For a Fortnight Photographic Portraits
★

C. All
en

Respectfully informs the Ladies,
Gentry
& Inhabitants of Rugeley and elsewhere that he can produce
A Very Superior Photographic Portrait
in gilt and other frames FROM ONE SHILLING TO ONE GUINEA and invites their patronage at the rear of PREMISES LATELY OCCUPIED BY W. PALMER

★

Specimens may be seen at Mr James's, Bookseller
★

Commencing at 10 o'clock Mornings until 6 in the Evening.
Rugeley,
June 2nd, 1856
★

-------------------------------------------------------------

At Hyde Park Corner, close to where carriages and horsemen enter the Park, and where the mob stands roaring and screaming to see Her Majesty the Queen drive by in her landau—not far, in fact, from Decimus Burton's Arch topped by that formidable equestrian statue of the late Field-Marshal the Duke of Wellington—you will find Tattersall's Ring, the
sanctum sanctorum
of all Turfites. It is a haunt as familiar to the young Yorkshire tyke as to the finest swell in London: a name as suggestive of good faith, honour, prompt payments, splendid horseflesh an
d noble company as it is of swin
dling, robbery,
non ests
,
defaulting, levanting, screws and blackguards.

There's a sporting air hangs about 'The Corner', from the red-jacketed touts who hang around its entrance to the shrewd cast of the auctioneer's countenance. We went down the yard, already filling at the news that Dr Palmer's nags would come under the hammer, and hundreds who had no intention whatever of bidding, were assembled there through curiosity. Here they stood: gentle and simple, young and elderly, peers of the Realm, gentry, tradesmen and legs. That lanky old man with the fine aristocratic face, and neck swathed in the thick white choker, is a clergyman, and as thorough a sportsman as ever stepped; nor are his sermons any the worse for that. The dirty little man in the brown coat is a viscount, exceedingly rich but so mean that he is said to go through the refuse bins outside his former club, from which he has been ejected, searching avidly for remnants of lobster and crayfish, which he grudges to buy for himself. Yonder goes the 'Leviathan' of the Ring, Bill Davies, tall and thin, dressed entirely in black, with a blue speckled handkerchief about his throat. He started life as a carpenter, and his word is now good for
£50,000
;
beside him walks young Frank Swindell, another commission-agent, wearing a bunch of early violets in his buttonhole. Both of them have made
the
same discovery, that, in the long run, straight dealing pays even in the betting ring. Since they scorn 'daylight robbery', which is to encourage betters to lay money on dead 'uns—horses that will never run—engineers of dirty work no longer trouble to approach them.