Chapter IV (6)

“He went there in the imminent peril of returning from them a ruined man. His stepfather assured Palmer that there would not be 4000 shillings for those who had claims on his estate. From the necessity he was under of raising money at an enormous discount we may easily infer that he was in desperate difficulties, and that unless some sudden success on the turf should retrieve his fortunes, they were hopeless. His health was shattered, his mind distracted; he had long been cherishing hopes that Polestar would win, and so put him in possession of something like a thousand guineas. The mare, it was true, was hardly his own, for she had been mortgaged; and if she should lose, she would become the property of another person. Picture to yourselves what must have been the condition, mental and bodily, of that young man when he rose from his bed on the morning of the races. It is scarcely possible, as he went down to breakfast, that this thought must not have crossed his mind, ‘My fate is trembling in the balance; this is the crisis of my destiny. Unless my horse shall win, to-night I am a beggar.’ With these feelings he repairs to the course. Another race is run before Polestar is brought out. His impatience is extreme. He looks on in a state of agonising excitement. Will the minutes never fly? At last arrives the decisive moment; the time has come for his race. The flag is dropped; the horses start; his mare wins easily, and he, her master, has won a thousand guineas! For three minutes he is not able to speak, so intense is his emotion. Slowly he recovers his utterance, and then how rapturous is his joy! He is saved, he is saved! Another chance to retrieve his position—one chance more to recover his character! As yet, at all events, he will not be a disgrace to his family and his friends. Conceive him to be, with all his faults, an honourable young man, and you may easily imagine what his ecstasy must have been. He loves the memory of his dead mother—he still reverences the name of his father—he is jealous of his sister’s honour, and it may be that he cherishes silently in his heart the thought of some other being dearer still than all to whom the story of his ruin would bring bitter anguish. But he is not ruined; he will meet his engagements like an honourable man. There is now no danger of his being an outcast, an adventurer, a black-leg. He will live to redeem his position, and to give joy to those who love him. With such thoughts in his heart, he returns to his inn in a state of indescribable elation, and with a revulsion from despair that must have convulsed—though not in the sense of illness—every fibre of his frame. His first idea is to entertain his friends, and he does so. The evidence does not prove that he drank to excess, but he gave a champagne dinner; and we all know that is a luxurious entertainment, at which there is no stint and not much self-respect. That evening he did not spend in the society of Palmer; indeed, it is not clear in whose company he spent it. But we find him on the evening of Wednesday at the ‘Unicorn’ with Saunders, his trainer, and a lady. On Thursday he walks upon the course, and Herring remonstrates with him for doing so, as the day is damp and misty, and the ground wet. That night he is seized with illness, and he continues ailing until his death at Rugeley. Arrived at Rugeley, it is but natural to suppose that a reaction of feeling may have set in. Then the dark side of the picture may have presented itself to his imagination. The chilling thought may have come upon him that his winnings were already forestalled and would scarcely suffice to save him from destruction. It is when suffering from a weakened body, and an irritated and excited mind, that he is attacked by a sickness which clings to his system, leaves him without any rest, incapacitates him from taking food, distracts his nerves, and places him in imminent danger of falling a victim to any sudden attack of convulsions to which he may have a predisposition. He relished no society so much as that of Palmer, whose residence was immediately opposite the ‘Talbot Arms’ Inn, where he was lying on his sick bed. For two days he had been taking opiate pills prescribed by Dr. Bamford. On Sunday night, at twelve o’clock, he started as from a dream in a state of the utmost excitement and alarm. He admitted afterwards that for two minutes he was mad, but he could not ascribe it to anything unless to his having been awakened by a squabble in the street. But do no such things happen to people of sound constitutions and regular habits? Do no such people awaken in agony and delirium because there is a noise under their windows? No; these are the afflictions of the dissipated and anxious, whose bodies are shattered and whose minds are distracted. Next day, Monday, he was pretty well, but not so well as to mount his horse or to take a walk in the fields. He could converse with his trainer and jockey, but he could take no substantial food, and drank not a drop of brandy-and-water. You will bear in mind that Palmer was not with him that day. In the middle of the night he was seized with an attack similar in character to that of the night preceding, but manifestly much milder, for he retained his consciousness throughout it, and was not mad for a moment. The evidence of Elizabeth Mills is conclusive on the point. At three o’clock on the following day (Tuesday) Mr. Jones, the surgeon of Lutterworth, arrived, and spent a considerable time—probably from three to seven o’clock—in his company. They had abundant opportunity for conversing confidentially, and they were likely to have done so, for they were very intimate, and Jones appears to have been on more familiar terms with Cook than was any other person, not even excepting Mr. Stevens. Nothing occurred in the entire and unbounded confidence which must have existed between Mr. Cook and Mr. Jones, to raise any suspicions in the mind of Mr. Jones; and at the consultation, which took place between seven and eight o’clock on Tuesday evening between Jones, Palmer, and Bamford, as to what the medicine for that evening should be, the fit of the Monday night was not mentioned. That is a remarkable fact. The Crown may say that it is remarkable, inasmuch as Palmer knew it, and said not a word about it; but I think that it shows that the fit was so little serious in the opinion of Cook that he did not think it worth mentioning to his intimate friend.”

In dealing with the “moral evidence,” counsel _first_ attacked the motive imputed by the prosecution, and sought to show from the correspondence, as well as from the conduct of the parties, that at the moment when Palmer was charged with killing Cook, he was his best and indeed the only friend whom he could look to to assist him in his severe financial troubles.

“Was it,” he said, “to his interest that in the second week in November Cook should be killed, say by a railway accident? For some time they had been mixed up together in racing transactions, had made heavy losses during the late sporting season, and Cook at least—and most probably Palmer, as associated with him—was looking forward to the success of Polestar to save them from ruin. At that time Pratt, the bill discounter, was pressing for an extra £200 to stave off legal proceedings on the £2000 bill, to which his mother’s name had been forged. To whom does Palmer apply? To Cook, who at once writes to his betting agent Fisher to advance and pay that to Pratt on the Saturday before the Monday’s settlement at Tattersall’s of the Shrewsbury winnings. Fisher having done this, was it not probable that Cook arranged with Palmer, that in order to get the use of this £200 for a few days, Herring, and not Fisher, should be authorised to collect the winnings and secure a sufficient payment to Pratt to stave off the action?” [Cook’s letter of the 19th of November was accordingly cited as a proof of his anxiety to assist Palmer.] “Again, there was in Herring’s hands a bill of Palmer’s for £500, bearing his mother’s forged acceptance. Was it likely that with this danger staring him in the face, Palmer would kill the only man from whom he could look for money? The transaction as to the bill for £500, secured on Cook’s racehorses, discounted by Pratt, for which, as Pratt wrote him at once, Palmer would have to provide, was another reason for not killing his only friend.”

In September Palmer had negotiated this bill with Pratt professedly for Cook’s benefit, and had received from Pratt a crossed cheque to Cook’s order for £385, and a wine warrant for £65, and at the same time, on his own account, £315 in cash, and the imputation by the Crown was that he forged Cook’s endorsement and took the money. The improbability of his doing this, as Cook was certain, had he done so, to have complained of it during the months that elapsed between the giving of the bill of sale on his horses and his death, was urged by Mr. Shee, who ventured to offer as an explanation the suggestion that as Cook wanted cash on that day, Palmer gave him his £315, and with his consent endorsed Cook’s name on the cheque and paid that to his own account. Again he dealt with the circumstance of Cook’s cheque for £350, the body of which was drawn by Cheshire, and, as Palmer said, taken by him on the 20th November to Cook for him to sign in his sick room. That cheque, it will be remembered, was not produced, but

“Weatherby, on whom it was drawn,” said Serjeant Shee, “was under the impression that the signature was Cook’s.[66] As it was not certain that Frail would have sent up to Weatherby the stakes against which it was drawn by the Monday, was it likely that, had Palmer meditated Cook’s death at the time, he would have risked its being returned—as it was—and passing into the hands of Cook’s executors, who would be certain to enquire into the matter, on Cook’s sudden death? From the enquiries that had been instituted as to his brother’s life policy, he knew himself to be an object of suspicion, and, if any foul play happened to Cook, all hope of recovering that would be gone. ‘Their refusal,’ wrote Pratt to him, ‘altered the whole state of affairs, and Palmer must be prepared to pay his mother’s acceptances for £4,000 due at the end of the month.’ There was the pinch; the office would not pay; the £4,000 was becoming due; the holder of the bills saw that he was without security, and, if anything occurred to increase the suspicions of the insurance office, which was very reluctant to pay, the £13,000 was lost for ever, lost beyond hope. Gentlemen, that £13,000 is sure to be paid, unless this man is convicted of murder; and that has a great deal to do with the clamour and alarm which have been excited. So sure as that man is saved, and saved I believe he will be, that £13,000 is paid. There is no defence, no pretence for a defence—the letters of the office make that plain. They took an enormous premium; knowing that the man was only 30, they took a premium for a man of 50—at least, the letters show that the premium was enormous—and I say that, as sure as this man is saved, that £13,000 is good for him, and will pay his creditors. Do not these facts show that in this October suspicions were hanging in menacing meteors about Palmer’s head, which would come down with irresistible momentum and crush him upon suspicion of a sudden death by murder? Do you believe that a man who wrote what the effects of strychnia were in his manual would risk such a scene as a death-bed by it, in the presence of the dearest and best friend of Cook—a man whom he could not influence; a medical man, who liked him and loved him well enough when he knew he was ill to sleep in the same room with him, that he might be able to attend to him in case he wanted assistance during the night? Is that common sense? Are you going to endorse such a theory as that upon the suggestion of Dr. Taylor about the effects of strychnia produced upon his five rabbits? Impossible! perfectly impossible! as I submit to you. So sure as anything happened by foul play to Cook, he had no more chance of getting the £13,000 than the £180,000 from the Prince of Wales Insurance Office—none whatever. That was the only means he had at that time of extricating himself from these encumbrances.”

Again, he tried to depreciate the evidence of Mills as to the symptoms of Cook’s attacks, on the ground—not, indeed, that she had been tampered with by the prosecution—because then, he said, he was certain that she would not have been called—but “that she had been instructed in the various symptoms by the repeated private examinations to which she had been subjected,” dwelling on the omission from her evidence before the coroner that she had been so violently sick after tasting the broth, and on the other discrepancies in, and omissions from, her description of the symptoms when there, and when in court.

“Upon all occasions,” said the learned counsel, “I am most reluctant to attack a witness who is examined on his or her oath, and particularly if he be in a humble position of life. I am very reluctant to impute perjury to such a person; and I think that a man who has been as long in the profession as I have been must be put a little to his wits’ end when he rushes upon the assumption that a person whose statements have, after a considerable lapse of time, materially varied, is, therefore, necessarily, deliberately perjured. The truth is, we know perfectly well, that if a considerable interval of time occurs between the first story and the second, and if the intelligent and respectable persons who are anxious to investigate the truth, but who have still a strong moral conviction—upon imperfect information—of the guilt of the accused person, will talk to witnesses and say, ‘Was there anything of this kind?’ or, ‘Anything of that kind?’ the witnesses at last catch hold of the phrase or term which has so often been used to them, and having in that way adopted it, they fancy they may tell it in court.”

He also attacked the conduct of Mr. Stevens, the stepfather, for, as he said, “goading and irritating Palmer into incautious expressions, by insinuating that he had stolen a trumpery betting-book that could not be of use to anyone;” and attributed Palmer’s anxiety to nominate a local solicitor to manage affairs to the nature of the pecuniary transactions, so much relying on honour, making them far more easy of adjustment by a friendly than by a hostile agent. As for Myatt, the postboy’s, story of the bribe for upsetting the fly, he attributed that to a personal feeling against the “meddlesome old gentleman,” as he called Stevens, and not to any idea of destroying the probable proofs of his delinquency. His marked attention to Cook during his illness he attributed to the interest he necessarily felt in his life, and the sending of broth and other things from his own house to the wish to save expense at a time when neither of them were too well off. “Would he,” said Serjeant Shee, “dream of sending poisoned broth to an inn, where it was sure to be tasted by the cook?”

In addition to the scientific witnesses which he would call to rebut those of the prosecution’s, he would prove that Cook, previously to the Shrewsbury meeting, was suffering severely from a syphilitic state of throat, and applying to Palmer for remedies for it—that Palmer could not have been in Rugeley at the time at which Newton swore that he sold the strychnia to him, and that the incident at the “Raven,” at Shrewsbury, of the brandy-and-water was a fiction. To what this evidence of previous illness amounted, and how the two witnesses who were to negative Newton and disprove the scene at the “Raven” fared when put in the box, will be seen in the report of their examination.[67] Great stress was of course laid on Palmer’s not only calling in Dr. Bamford, but sending for Mr. Jones, Cook’s firmest friend, to witness what proved his last day of life, and on the improbability of Palmer tampering with the medicines under such professional supervision.

“Is it conceivable that if Palmer meant to slay Cook with poison in the dead of night, he would previously have insured the presence in his victim’s chamber of a medical witness, who would know from his frightful symptoms that the man was not dying a natural death? He brings a medical man into his room, and makes him lie within a few inches of the sick man’s bed, that he may be startled with his terriffic shrieks, and gaze on those agonizing convulsions which indicate the fatal potency of the poison. Can you believe it? He might have dispatched him by means that defy detection, for Cook was taking morphia medicinally, and a grain or two more would have silently thrown him into an eternal sleep;[68] but instead of this he sends to Lutterworth for Jones. You have been told that this was done to cover appearances. Done to cover appearances! No, no, no! You cannot believe it. It is not in human nature. It cannot be true. _You cannot find him guilty. You dare not find him guilty on the supposition of its truth. The country will not stand by you if you believe it to be true. You will be impeached before the whole world if you say that it is true. I believe in my conscience it is false, because, consistently with the laws that govern human nature, it cannot be true._”

“The incident of his being found searching the clothes and under the pillow,” said counsel, “ought not to be looked upon as suspicious, as Mills, who came into the room at the time, thought no suspicion of it, and there was nothing but the evidence of a kind and considerate character in his having ordered the shell and the coffin; nor was it possible to torture into a presumption of guilt the few words of irritation which may have fallen from him in the course of a conversation in which Mr. Stevens treated him with scorn, not to say with insolence.” And then, alluding to the entry as to the effects of strychnia in one of his medical books, the learned Serjeant turned it most adroitly to his own purpose, as the basis of a peroration so telling in its language and perfect in its construction that it must be preserved intact.

“The Crown had, no doubt, originally intended to rely upon the prisoner’s medical books as affording damning proof of his guilt; but I will refer to those volumes for evidences that will speak eloquently in his favour. In youth and early manhood there is no such protection for a man as the society of an innocent and virtuous woman to whom he is sincerely attached. If you find a young man devoted to such a woman, loving her dearly, and marrying her for the love he bears her, you may depend upon it that he is a man of humane and gentle nature, little prone to deeds of violence. To such a woman was Palmer attached in his youth, and I will bring you proof positive to show that the volumes cited against him were the books he used when a student, and that the manuscript passages are in the handwriting of his wife. His was a marriage of the heart. He loved that young and virtuous woman with a pure and generous affection; he loved her as he now loves her first-born, who awaits with trembling anxiety the verdict that will restore him to the arms of his father, or drive that father to an ignominious death upon the scaffold.” [The prisoner here covered his face with his hands and shed tears.] “Here in this book I have conclusive evidence of the kind of man that Palmer was seven years ago. I find in its pages the copy of a letter addressed by him while still a student to the woman whom he afterwards made his wife. It is as follows:—

“‘MY DEAREST ANNIE,—I snatch a moment from my studies to your dear, dear little self. I need scarcely say that the principal inducement I have to work is the desire of getting my studies finished, so as to be able to press your dear little form in my arms. With best, best love, believe me, dearest Annie,

‘Your own WILLIAM.’

“Now this is not the sort of letter that is generally read in courts of justice. It was no part of my instructions to read that letter, but the book was put in to prove that this man is a wicked, heartless, savage desperado; and I show you what he was seven years ago—that he was a man who loved a young woman for her own sake—loved her with a pure and virtuous affection—such an affection as would, in almost all natures, be a certain antidote against guilt. Such is the man whom it has been my duty to defend upon this occasion, and upon the evidence that is before you I cannot believe him to be guilty. Don’t suppose, gentlemen, that he is unsupported in this dreadful trial by his family and his friends. An aged mother, who may have disapproved of some part of his conduct, awaits with trembling anxiety your verdict; a dear sister can scarcely support herself under the suspense which now presses upon her; a brave and gallant brother stands by him to defend him, and spares neither time nor trouble to save him from an awful doom. I call upon you, gentlemen, to raise your minds to a capacity to estimate the high duty which you have to perform. You have to stem the torrent of prejudice; you have to vindicate the honour and character of your country; you have, with firmness and courage, to do your duty, and to find a verdict for the Crown if you believe that guilt is proved; but, if you have a doubt upon that point, depend upon it that the time will come when the innocence of that man will be made apparent, and when you will deeply regret any want of due and calm consideration of the case which it has been my duty to lay before you.”

THE REPLY.

The greater part of the tenth day was occupied with the reply of the Attorney-General, dealing in the _first_ part with the medico-scientific evidence brought forward for the defence, and contrasting it with that on the part of the prosecution, and in the _latter_ part pressing home with all his force of criticism and power of language the suspicious acts of the prisoner before and after the death of Cook. Between _idiopathic_ and _traumatic tetanus_ he drew the distinction, “supported,” as he said, “by the evidence of men who had seen, not here and there a stray case, but numerous instances of that disease, that the former was a disease of days, and even weeks, and not of hours or minutes.” He pointed out that such were really the symptoms in the cases adduced for the defence, and ridiculed the notion that the old ulcers of the spring of the year, with which Dr. Savage had dealt successfully, could be assigned as the causes of this form of disease in Cook’s case, and then criticised _seriatim_ the other forms of convulsive disease to which the witnesses for the defence attributed it. After referring to the statements of Dr. Savage and Mr. Stevens as to the state of Cook’s health prior to his departure for Shrewsbury races, he thus dealt with the evidences of his state of health offered by the prisoner’s witnesses:—

“It is said that at some former time he had exhibited his throat to some of the witnesses that were called, and had applied to Palmer for mercurial wash to apply to it, or to some of the ulcers. The precise period is not fixed, but it is perfectly clear that, though at one time he had adopted that course, under the recommendation of Dr. Savage he had got rid of it, and there is not the slightest pretence for saying that this man was suffering under a syphilitic affection of any kind; that fact was negatived distinctly and unequivocally by a man of the highest authority, a medical gentleman of eminence, under whose treatment the man got so rapidly well. It is a pretence, gentlemen, which has not the shadow of a foundation, and which I should be shrinking from my duty if I did not denounce as altogether unworthy of your consideration. There was nothing about the man, according to the statement of those who were competent to give you an opinion, which would warrant, for a single moment, the supposition that there was anything in any part of his body which could justify the notion of _traumatic tetanus_. Even if there were, the character which his symptoms assumed when the _tetanus_ set in, is utterly incompatible, according to the evidence of all the witnesses, with a case of _traumatic tetanus_.”

Then, after pointing out how the two cases of this disease put forward by the defence were cases of days and hours, and, not like Cook’s, of minutes, he proceeded to deal with the suggestion of _idiopathic tetanus_.

“_Idiopathic tetanus?_ Proceeding from what? They say that Mr. Cook was a man of a delicate constitution, subject to excitement; that he had something the matter with his chest; that, in addition, he had this diseased condition of his throat, and, putting all these things together, they say, that if he took cold, he might get ‘_idiopathic tetanus_.’ We are launched into a sea of speculation and impossibilities. Mr. Nunneley, who came forward for the purpose of inducing you to believe this, goes through a bead-roll of the supposed infirmities of Mr. Cook; talks about his exciteability, about his delicacy of chest, about the affection of his throat, goes through these various heads, and says that these things may have predisposed him to ‘_idiopathic tetanus_,’ if he took cold. What evidence is there that he ever did take cold? Not the slightest in the world. From beginning to end he was never treated for cold by anybody, and never complained of it to anyone. _I cannot help saying that to me it seems a scandal upon a learned, distinguished, and liberal profession, that men should put forward such speculations as these, perverting facts, and drawing from them sophistical and unwarrantable conclusions with the view of deceiving a jury. I have the greatest respect for science, no man can have more; but I cannot repress my indignation and abhorrence when I see it thus perverted and prostituted to the purposes of a particular cause in a court of justice._ Do not talk to me about excitement, as Mr. Nunneley did the other day, being the cause of _idiopathic tetanus_. You remember the sort of excitement he spoke of, they are unworthy of your notice, and they were topics discreditable to be put forward by a witness as worthy of the attention of sensible men constituting such a tribunal as you are.”

Again, on Mr. Nunneley’s suggestion that it might be a case of general convulsions accompanied by tetanic symptoms, said the Attorney-General.—

“Well, but pause a moment, Mr. Nunneley; have you ever seen one single case in which death arising from general convulsions, accompanied by tetanic symptoms, has not ended in the unconsciousness of the patient before death? ‘No, I never knew such a case—not one. But in some book or other I am told that there is such a case reported;’ and he cites one, not for that purpose, I think, but with reference, to general convulsions being sometimes accompanied by tetanic symptoms and ending in death, from a very eminent author of the present day, Dr. Copland. Dr. Copland is living and Dr. Copland might have been called—was not called, notwithstanding the challenge which I threw out. Why? Because it is infinitely better in such a case to call together from the east and west practitioners of more or less obscurity, instead of bringing to bear upon the subject the light of science which is treasured in the breasts of the eminent practitioners with which this city abounds.”

Again, on Mr. Partridge’s evidence of the probable effect of the granules on the spinal marrow,

“I called his attention,” he said, “to what had evidently not been done before, namely, the symptoms of Mr. Cook’s case, and asked him in simple, straightforward terms whether, looking at these, he would pledge his opinion, in the face of the medical world and the Court, that this was a case of arachnitis, and he candidly admitted that he would not assert it.”

Against Dr. Macdonald’s epileptic convulsions with tetanic complications, he cited the following from that gentleman’s cross-examination:—

“Did you ever know a case of epilepsy, with or without tetanic complications, in which consciousness was not destroyed before the patient died? He said ‘No, I cannot say I ever did, but I have read in some book that such a case occurred.’ Is there anything to make you think this was epilepsy? ‘Well, it may have been epilepsy, because I do not know what else to ascribe it to, but I must admit that epilepsy is characterised generally by unconsciousness.’ Well, then, what difference would tetanic complications make? That he is unable to explain.”

With the final suggestion of _Angina pectoris_, he could not deal so minutely as with the four preceding ones.

“The gentleman,” he said, “who was called at the last moment would not have escaped quite so easily if I had had the books to which he referred under my hand, and been able to expose, as I would have done, the ignorance or presumption of the assertion he dared to make. _I say ignorance or presumption; or, what is worse, an intention to deceive. I assert it in the face of the whole medical profession, and I am satisfied I shall have a verdict in my favour._”

He then concluded this part of his speech by calling attention to the fact, that three of the witnesses for the prisoner, Mr. Partridge, Dr. Robinson, and even Dr. Letheby, strongly as he was biased for the defence, agreed with Sir B. Brodie and the other medical witnesses for the Crown, that, “in the whole of their experience, learning, and information, they knew of no known disease to which the symptoms of Mr. Cook could possibly be referred—a fact the importance of which it was impossible to exaggerate.”

Assuming, then, that all were agreed, that from the time that the final paroxysm set in, the symptoms were similar to those of _strychnia tetanus_, he dealt with the point which the defence had raised—which he admitted deserved their most attentive consideration—that there were points of difference, which had led some of the witnesses to the conclusion that they could not have resulted from that cause.

“Let us see,” he said, “what they are. In the first place, they showed that the period which elapsed between the supposed administration of the poison, and the first symptoms, was longer than they have ever observed in animals upon which they have experimented. The first observation which arises is this: that there is a known difference between animal and human life, in the power with which certain specific things act upon their organization. It may well be that poison administered to a rabbit will produce its effect in a given time. It by no means follows that it will produce the same effect in the same time on an animal of a different description. Still less does it follow that it will exercise its baneful influence in the same time on a human subject. The whole of the evidence on both sides leads to establish this fact, that not only in individuals of different species, but in individuals of the same species, the same poison and the same influence will produce effects different in degree, different in duration, different in power. But again, it is perfectly notorious that the rapidity with which the poison begins to work depends mainly upon the mode of its administration. If it is administered in a fluid state it acts with great rapidity. If it is given in a solid state its effects come on more slowly. If it is given in an indurated substance it will act with still greater tardiness. Then what was the period at which this poison began to act after its administration, assuming it to have been poison? It seems, from Mr. Jones’s statement, that Palmer came to administer the pills somewhere about 11 o’clock, but they were not administered on his first arrival, for the patient, as if with an intuitive sense of the death that awaited him, strongly resisted the attempts to make him take them; and no doubt these remonstrances, and the endeavours to overcome them, occupied some period of time. The pills were at last given. Assuming—which I only do for the sake of argument—that the pills contained strychnia, how soon did they begin to operate? Mr. Jones says he went down to his supper, and came back again about 12 o’clock. Upon his return to the room, after a word or two of conversation with Cook, he proceeded to undress and go to bed, and had not been in bed ten minutes before a warning came that another of the paroxysms was about to take place. The maidservant puts it still earlier, and it appears that as early as ten minutes before twelve the first alarm was given, which would make the interval little more than three-quarters of an hour. When these witnesses tell us that it would take an hour and a half, or two hours, we see here another of those exaggerated determinations to see the facts only in the way that will be most favourable to the prisoner. I find in some of the experiments that have been made that the duration of time, before the poison begins to work, has been little, if anything, less than an hour. In the case of a girl at Glasgow it was stated that it was three-quarters of an hour before the pills began to work. There may have been some reason for the pills not taking effect within a certain period after their administration. It would be easy to mix them up with substances difficult of solution, or which might retard their action. I cannot bring myself to believe that if in all other respects you are perfectly satisfied that the symptoms, the consequences, the effects, were analogous, and similar in all respects to those produced by strychnia, you will conclude that in this case strychnia was not administered, and found your conclusion on the simple fact that a quarter of an hour more than usual may have elapsed before the pills operated. But they say the premonitory symptoms were wanting. They assert that in the case of animals the animal at first manifests some uneasiness, shrinks, and draws itself into itself, as it were, and avoids moving; that certain involuntary twitchings about the head come on, and that there were no such premonitory symptoms in Cook’s case. I utterly deny the proposition. I say there were premonitory symptoms of the most marked character. He is lying in his bed; he suddenly starts up in an agony of alarm. What made him do that? Was there nothing premonitory there—nothing that warned him the paroxysm was coming on? He jumps up, says, ‘Go and fetch Palmer—fetch me help! I am going to be ill as I was last night!’ What was that but a knowledge that the symptoms of the previous night were returning, and a warning of what he might expect unless some relief were obtained? He sits up and prays to have his neck rubbed. What was the feeling about his neck but a premonitory symptom, which was to precede the paroxysms that were to supervene? He begs to have his neck rubbed, and that gives him some comfort. But here they say this could not have been tetanus from strychnia, because animals cannot bear to be touched, for a touch brings on a paroxysm—not only a touch, but a breath of air, a sound, a word, a movement of any one near will bring on a return of the paroxysm. Now, in three cases of death from strychnia we have shown that the patient has endured rubbing of the limbs, and received satisfaction from that rubbing. In Mrs. Smyth’s case, when her legs were distorted, she prayed and entreated that she might have them straightened. The lady at Leeds, in the case which Dr. Nunneley himself attended, implored her husband between the spasms to rub her legs and arms in order to overcome the rigidity. That case was within his own knowledge, and yet in spite of it, although he detected strychnia in the body of the unhappy woman, he dares to say that Cook’s having tolerated the rubbing between the paroxysms is a proof that he had not taken strychnia. Then there is the case of Clutterbuck. He had taken an overdose of strychnia, and suffered from the reappearance of tetanus, and his only comfort was to have his legs rubbed. Therefore, I say that the continued endeavour to persuade a jury that the fact of Cook’s having had his neck rubbed proves that this is not tetanus by strychnia, shows nothing but the dishonesty and insincerity of the witnesses who have so dared to pervert the facts. But they go further, and contend that Cook was able to swallow. So he was before the paroxysms came on. But nobody has ever pretended that he could swallow afterwards. He swallowed the pills, and what is very curious, and illustrates part of the theory, is this, that it was the act of swallowing the pills, a sort of movement in raising his head, which brought on the paroxysm of which he died.”

Having thus called attention to the fact, that against the three cases of undoubted poisoning by strychnia (those of Mrs. Smyth, Mrs. Dove, and Mr. Clutterbuck), the sufferers in which begged to be rubbed, all that could be set up was, that animals when thus poisoned could not bear to be touched, the Attorney-General dealt with the fact of the rigidity of Cook’s body after death, on which Mr. Nunneley relied as a proof that it could not be a case of strychnia poisoning. He cited the evidence of Mr. Herapath, the very next analyst called by the defence, that in two of his experiments on animals “the bodies had been indurated and contorted,” as well that of Dr. Taylor that one of the animals in his experiments was so rigid after death that it could be held out in an horizontal position in the air as though it were on its four legs on a plane surface. “What,” he said, “are you to think of the honesty of this sort of evidence? “Again, on the question of the fulness or emptiness of the heart, he thus accounted for the variation of the symptoms:—

“It is obvious to any one who reflects for a single moment that the question whether the heart shall be found compressed, or the lungs congested must depend upon the immediate cause of death, and we know that in cases of tetanus death may result from more than one cause. All the muscles of the body are subject to the exciting action of this powerful poison, but no one can tell in what order those muscles will be affected, or where the poisonous influence will put forth the fulness of its power. If it acts on the respiratory muscles, and arrests the play of the lungs, and with it the breathing of the atmospheric air, the result will be that the heart will be left full. But if some spasm seizes on the heart, contracting it and expelling from it the blood that it contains, and so produces death, the result will be that the heart will be found empty. So that you never have perfect certainty as to how these symptoms will manifest themselves after death; but that is again put forward as if the fact of the heart being empty is a conclusive fact of the death not having taken place from strychnia. Yet those men who come here as witnesses under the sanction of scientific authority, must have heard both these cases spoken to by medical gentlemen who had examined those two unfortunate patients after death, and who told us that in both cases they found the heart empty. That gets rid of that matter. As death takes place from one or other of these causes, so will be the appearance of the heart, the brain, and the body after death. There is nothing in this for a single moment to negative the conclusion which you would otherwise arrive at from the other symptoms.”

For the difficulty which he admitted arose from the non-discovery of strychnia by the analyst, he assigned another reason besides that of the condition of the stomach and other parts from the negligence imputed to those who had conducted the _post mortem_ examination—namely, the probable smallness of the fatal dose. In all the cases of experiments on animals in which the poison had been detected, the doses had been one or even two grains, yet half a grain would prove fatal; and where so little as that had been given in experiments, Dr. Taylor and Dr. Rees had failed to detect it. On the partisanship of Mr. Herapath, sitting by the side of the prisoner’s counsel, prompting questions, and on his assertion that he believed that Cook had been killed by strychnia and that Taylor could and ought to have detected it, his remarks were those rather of a French Public Prosecutor than an Attorney-General.

“I do not say that alters the fact; but I do say that it induces one to look at the credit of those witnesses with a very great amount of suspicion. I reverence a man who, from a sense of justice and a love of truth—from those high considerations which form the noblest character of man—comes forward in favour of a man against whom the world may turn in a torrent of prejudice and aversion, and who stands and states what he believes to be the truth. But I abhor the traffic in testimony to which, I regret to say, men of science sometimes permit themselves to condescend.”

Whether Newton was believed or not—and he showed how his statement was confirmed by Roberts’s account of Palmer’s conduct at the time of the second purchase of poison, he urged that of the latter fact there could be no doubt, and asked what was done with that strychnia. That Palmer obtained this strychnia was not controverted, and what he did with it was not attempted to be satisfactorily accounted for.

“Purchased for whom? for what? If for a patient why is he not produced? If for any other purpose, let us at least have it explained. Has there been a shadow of an explanation? Alas, I grieve to say, none at all. Something was said, in the outset of the case, about dogs that had been troublesome in the paddocks, but that was in September. If there was any recurrence of this, why are not the grooms here to prove this? Some one must have assisted Palmer to destroy these dogs. Where are those persons? Why are they not called? Not only are they not called, they are not even named. My learned friend does not venture to breathe even a suggestion.”[69]

As for the witness called to disprove the incident of the brandy and water at Shrewsbury, his solitary evidence, that of one of the prisoner’s associates, he urged, would not stand for a moment against those of the witnesses who had spoken for the prosecution. As for the attempt to prove that Palmer could not have been in Rugeley at the time when Newton swore that he purchased the strychnia, Mr. Jeremiah Smith’s antecedents, the disgraceful part he had played in the insurance transactions, let alone his exhibition in the witness-box, he added, deprived his evidence of credit.

Again, antimony was undoubtedly discovered in the body, and yet no one is known to have given it to Cook, unless Palmer did so in the broth, the toast and water, and the coffee that he pressed him to take, and provided for him. On the question of motive so anxiously laboured by the defence, it was enough simply to repeat, the amounts of the debts pressing on Palmer, and to bear in mind how drowning men will catch at a straw. Cook’s bets, which Palmer had collected, staved off immediate pressure; and had not Mr. Stevens, whose conduct as Cook’s relative the Attorney-General earnestly defended, insisted on the _post-mortem_, and thus brought about the inquest and this inquiry, it was possible that the insurance office might have paid the policy on Walter’s life, and the forged bills been thus redeemed in time to save exposure. Cook also was valueless to help Palmer to keep these bills alive; even Pratt, the 60 per cent. money-lender, would not discount his acceptance for £500 without the security of a bill of sale on his horses.

Better acquainted with turf doings than his opponent, the Attorney-General smiled at the idea, that because a man was another’s confederate on the turf therefore he made himself responsible for his debts, or that Cook, with all his friendship for Palmer, would beggar himself for his sake.

“Joint engagement they had but one, the £500 bill secured on Sirius and Polestar, and it was to meet this, and free his horses, that Cook gave £300 out of his receipts at Shrewsbury to Palmer to send up to Pratt, and wrote to Fisher to advance the other £200. No £300 was sent up, and the £200, with the bets collected by Herring, went not to free this bill, but to stop Pratt’s action on the forged bill of £2000 of Palmer’s. It was no doubt true that after a man’s death, his bets were irrecoverable and his betting-book useless. It was, however, useful to enable Palmer to give a list of bets to Herring to collect, the proceeds of which were turned to his own use, and the previous collection of which Palmer withheld from Stevens. In the same way would have gone the cheque for £350 for the stakes—whether a forgery or not—but for the accident of their not having paid over in time. Had Cook lived, the closely approaching claim on his £500 acceptance, which he believed to have been settled, would have revealed the whole transaction.” [Again, the Attorney-General pressed for the production of the £350 cheque filled up by Cheshire.] “Why should Cheshire be asked to fill it up? Just about this time Palmer was to meet Dr. Bamford and Jones in consultation—why not ask Mr. Jones, the trusted friend of Cook, tell him the same story as he did Cheshire, and not send for the latter? From the day that this cheque was drawn till he was arrested on the bill, Palmer had undisturbed possession of his own papers—from the day of his arrest till his trial the papers had been in safe custody. Why, then, is it not produced? Can you help drawing the inference that the transaction will not bear the light? Look, again, at the claim of £3000 or £4000 of bills on Cook’s estate, the document Cheshire refused to witness, which is also not produced—the letter to Pratt that he must have Polestar, and the instructions not to give any information on Cook’s affairs. Can you doubt that they were all part of one fraudulent and flagitious design, for the full completion of which the death of Cook was a necessary thing?”

Palmer’s conduct at the _post-mortem_, the tampering with the cover of the jar—by whom?—his anxiety to upset Mr. Stevens when in charge of it, because, it had been urged, of “his prying meddlesome curiosity;” his presents and letters to the coroner; his prompting Cheshire to tamper with the letter from Dr. Taylor; his anxiety to know, and to let the coroner know, that strychnia had not been found; his suggestion to call Smith (what a witness Jeremiah would have made!); his assertions of previous epileptic fits, and his hope “that the verdict to-morrow would be that he died of natural causes, and thus end it,” were all dwelt upon: “little things, if taken individually, but taken as a whole,” said the Attorney-General, “as I submit to you, leading irresistibly to the conclusion of the guilt of this man.”

In concluding this masterly speech, though in some parts too like fighting for a verdict, the Attorney-General criticised the assertion by Serjeant Shee of his belief of the prisoner’s innocence:—