After the death of John, the fourth child, who died on January
30th, 1854,
Mrs Bradshaw, the help, rushed into The Bell next door and shocked the customers who were nodding over their ale and talking sagely about women and horses—their two main subjects of conversation—'I'll never go back to that house no more. That wretch has done away another of his children!'
Pressed to explain what method of infanticide Dr Palmer used, she declared: 'Why, he smears po
ison on his little finger and th
en dips it in honey and gives it to the poor innocent to suck.'
4
Have you seen the Doctor doing so ?' asked
the
landlord.
'No, but I know it in my heart,' said Mrs Bradshaw, reaching for her gin and water.
In our opinion, Mrs Bradshaw's imagination must have been morbidly stirred by the loose talk going the rounds in Rugeley. We find it difficult to reconcile Dr Palmer's love for his wife and his boy Willie with any such cold-blooded murder. Moreover, it is a common tragedy in families which arc well-to-do, careful in their hygiene, and quite above suspicion, for the first child to be born safe and sound and the second, third, fourth and fifth, to be cither miscarried or else born so sickly that they never survive infancy. Doctors cannot explain this phenomenon, except perhaps as indi
cating some failure of the mothe
r's blood to agree with the father's; though why t
he first child should survive th
ey do not venture to suggest.
Dr Palmer now sent his wife for a holiday to the little coastal village of Ramsgate, accompanied by her friend Miss Salt. A letter has come into our hands, undated but doubtless posted in
1854
on that occasion. It is written beneath a copperplate engraving of the Crystal Palace, with the inscription:
Palace of Glass for the Industrial Exhibition, Hyde Park,
1850,
designed by J
oseph Paxton, Esq., F.L.S. This magnificent structure is
1848
ft. long,
408
ft. wide, and 66 ft. high, and is built entirely of glass and iron.
The letter runs:
My dearest Willie,
I hope you are very happy and also very good. Mamma has been to purchase this little picture for you: I was sorry not to get a coloured one. I shall hear from Papa all about you, so let him have to tell me that you are a
dear good boy
. I shall not forget, all being well, some pretty toy for you. Give Papa twenty kisses for Mamma, and twenty for yourself, and with love ever—
Your affectionate mother,
A. Palmer
London, Thursday. Tell Papa I will write to him tomorrow from Ramsgate.
She was away at Ramsgate a fortnight, enjoying the sea breezes and collecting shells on the shore. While there, she unbosomed herself to Miss Salt, saying: 'My poor mother died on a visit to our house, soon after dear Willie was born; and then Mr Leonard Bladon died; and afterwards there was Mr Joseph Bentley, whom my husband had been to visit; and since then, four little innocents of our own. Whatever will people say?'
But she could guess what the Rugeley gossip would be; and when the two ladies w
ere packing their trunks for th
e journey back, she remarked to Miss Salt: 'My darling Willie—I hope he's safe!' Then, catching a look of surprise in her friend's eye, she changed her words: 'I mean, I hope he's
well’
And well he was, having a merry time playing at 'Hons and tigers' with his father in the parlour, and hstening to fairy stories from a book. But on Annie's return, melancholia settled more firmly than ever on her. She once remarked:' If it wasn't so wicked and if it wasn't for wanting to look after Willie, I'd think no more about taking my life than taming off a cock. I've been a cruel disappointment to my husband, though he's as patient as a saint, and never addresses me harshly, or blames me for bearing sickly infants. He always says: "Your new treasure is just a bit nicer and prettier than the last." When I'm gone, he'll soon find another wife, with all that I lack in looks and accomplishments; but he gets cross whenever I tell him that.'
Since Dr Palmer's arrest, a great many new stories have come into circulation which represent him as having killed scores of people in these years; but they prove without exception to be clumsy fabrications designed to assist the sale of the newspapers that publish them. For example,
The Norfolk Chronicle
prints the following story, but gives no exact date, nor even a certain location for the poisoning. It seems to have been concocted on the model of Bladon's murder, which the Rugeley Police, after making due inquiries, decided to be no murder at all.
It seems that a few years ago a young man named Bly, residing near Beccles, had formed an unfortunate connexion with the Turf, and chanced to be professionally attended by William Palmer, either at Rugeley, or at some town adjacent to a race-course, by many said to be Leicester. Bly had, singularly enough, won largely of Palmer, when he was thus taken dangerously ill. His wife, having heard from him, immediately hurried to his bedside. On her arrival, Palmer tried to persuade her not to see her husband. She succeeded however in having an interview with him, and he told her he believed he was dying and, after expressing contrition for his ill-spent life, stated that in the event of his death she was to apply to Palmer for
£
800
which he owed him. He died shortly afterwards, and at his funeral Mrs Bly related to Palmer the conversation. Palmer replied that it was only a proof of the state of mind in which the deceased had died, for instead of owing him
£
800,
it was just the reverse, the money being due from the deceased to him. He added that he should never have applied to Mrs Bly for it, if she had not mentioned the subject to him.
From what we have learned at Rugeley, Dr Palmer made game of the talk that went on about h
;
m. He would greet old friends in The Bell or The Shoulder of Mutton with a rollicking: '
Here comes the poisoner!' and th
en, turning to Jack, or Harry, or Bill, would ask:
4
And what's your poison, lad ? Prussic acid or arsenic ?'
'What's your poison?' has since become a proverbial greeting in the inns of Staffordshire on Dr Palmer's account.
Chapter X
ENGLISH CHOLERA
T
HE following account of by far the most tragi
c event in Dr Palmer's life has
been kindly supplied by Dr Salt's daughter, Annie Palmer's closest friend.
MISS
SALT
One afternoon, in the September of
1854,
1
found Annie Palmer in one of her blackest moods. When I tried to hearten her, she said: 'I'm afraid, dear child, all is over now. I have failed my husband both as a companion and as a wife. It would be unbecoming for me to entrust an unmarried girl like yourself with our marital secrets; but I daresay you have guessed how it can be with a young and vigorous husband
...
He will want to make love constantly, and if his wife has a headache or happens to be feeling dull, she can't respond as she should, to his caresses. I try to hide my distaste for such encounters, but I can't deceive him always. It's only natural that he should get restive in consequence and, though he professes to love me as much as ever, his appetite remains unsatisfied.'
Here Annie paused, before making what seemed to be a very painful admission. 'That he has bedded with other women while away at distant race-meetings, I have no doubt; and while much disliking the notion, how can I blame him? Now, I fear, he has fallen deep in love with my own maid—yes, Eliza Tharm—who's eighteen years old and, as you know, full of life. Eliza's an honest girl. Yesterday she came to me and complained that "the Doctor, he's been acting very strange of late, Missus, pulling me about in the pantry and pretending to make love to me". "I hope you resisted him, Eliza," I asked, "like a good girl?" "Oh, yes, Missus," she answered ingenuously, "else I wouldn't have told you. And I hope as I always shall resist him, because it's not right,
is it?—not under the same roof as a wife who's always treated me kind!'"
I suggested that Eliza should be dismissed at once, but Annie would not agree. 'Why make needless talk?' she said. 'I believe I can trust Eliza.'
'Did you charge Dr Palmer with the act?' I asked, feeling most indignant on my friend's behalf.
'I did, though not very directly,' she answered. 'He laughed and said he had just given the wench a good-humoured tweak and a slap or two, as she passed; but wouldn't ever do such a thing again, if I objected. He hadn't thought that the girl would take on so; it was only his way, he explained, of cheering her up and showing he wasn't as stiff as most medical men.'
'Did you believe him?' I inquired.
'Why, of course, my dear,' Annie replied, opening her eyes very wide. 'Will never deceives me.'
'But you have just told me
that
he's in love with the girl,' I insisted.
' Oh, I don't say the poor fellow doesn't deceive himself,' she answered
with
a sigh. 'The sooner I'm out of his way, the better!'
I reproached her for this shocking remark, and she begged that I would never mention the matter to anyone. And I haven't until today, when I no longer feel bound to silence.
But I told her: 'Annie, my dear, I hear in a roundabout way that he has insured your life for a considerable sum. What is the meaning of this?'
Annie smiled mysteriously, as she answered: 'It was I who suggested
that
he should take out a policy.'
Observing my look of wonder, she went on: 'You know that I greatly desire to leave this world. Perhaps I should add that with the desire goes a clear presentiment that I shall not live long; and therefore I told Will that he mustn't fail to insure himself against my sudden death. You see, I have an annuity, from my father, of two hundred pounds a year, which lasts only while I do, and it would be a great blow to Will were it cut off without warning. He listened most unwillingly, saying that mine was an unlucky notion, and that the premium would carve a deep hole in the value of
the
annuity. However, I won him to my view; and last January, Dr Knight and Dr Bamford, and Dr Monckton, all examined me and pronounced me a "good life". Now I am fully insured and need not worry on that score . . .'
Here I gave a slight cough and interrupted: 'But Annie, they tell me that you are over-insured—the premium paid would cover the risk of losing an annuity three or four times as valuable!'
Again she smiled mysteriously: 'I begged Will to set as great a value on my life as possible; and I'm glad he rates me so high. He's promised that if I die, he'll take Willie to your sister-in-law. She treasures him, and Willie's always happy as a lark at their house, far happier than at home, though he would never hurt my feelings by telling me so, he's such a dear, kind boy.'
'But Annie,' I continued, 'if three doctors testify to your being a good life, who are you to contradict them b
y an idle presentiment of death
?'
She answered: 'I daresay they'd have testified the same for my poor mother when she was twenty-three years old, as I am now; yet she died of natural causes while in her early fifties. Besides, my annuity isn't the only inheritance that Father bequeathed me.'
I said no more, knowing that the Colonel and all his brothers, and his father before him, had suffered from suicidal melancholia. I guessed that what preyed on her mind was a new pregnancy, which she could not face with her former courage. The oftentimes disappointed hope for a healthy little sister, to be Willie's playmate and her darling, had worn quite thin by this time.
Next day, Annie was invited to accompany Dr Palmer's noble-hearted and sweetly charming sister Sarah on a visit to Liverpool. She appeared to be torn between desire for a holiday and fear lest her husband might press his siege of Miss Eliza. In the end she consented to go, but took the precaution of asking Mrs Bradshaw, their charwoman, to sleep in the house, on the ground that Dr Palmer would probably be away at the races, and Eliza feared to stay alone at night.
The sequel is now public knowledge. On Monday, September
18th, 1854,
Annie went by train to Liverpool with Sarah, having bought tickets for a concert at St George's Hall, which she was anxious to hear. But she rep
osed too much trust in the weath
er; and on the following day attended the concert wearing a light summer dress. When the two friends emerged from the suffocatingly hot hall, they had to wait some time for a cab in a street swept by a bitter east wind. Annie caught a chill, but when they got back to
the
friends with whom they were lodging—none other than Mr Evans Senior, Dr Palmer's former employer— would not take Sarah's advice by retiring to bed. Instead, she stayed up and entertained the company by playing sentimental pieces on the pianoforte; she played very well, too. Whist and conversation then continued until a late hour. The next day, Wednesday, September
20th,
her chill had worsened, yet after a parting luncheon of cold roast beef, pickles, and a glass of wine, Sarah and she took the train home. On her arrival at Rugeley, Annie was suffering from a violent looseness. She went to bed at once, without taking any food. The following morning, Dr Palmer fetched her a cup of sweet, milkless tea, which she vomited up.
Thereafter, Mrs Bradshaw prepared all her mistress's food: tea, toast, gruel, and once a
little
arrowroot, always first tasting it, but either Dr Palmer or Eliza Tharm brought it to the bedside. Dr Palmer diagnosed English cholera. Growing anxious when she was no better by Saturday, and still could not keep any food down, he sent for Dr Bamford. Since by now diarrhoea had given place to the opposite condition, Dr Bamford prescribed some pills containing calomel and colocynth, and an opening draught. On the Sunday, Sarah called, and Annie admitted that she felt very ill indeed. She added: 'You must not come here. Stay
with
your sick mother—she has you alone to rely on. Your brother George is worse than useless in the circumstances. I'm in safe hands.'
All this time I was away in London on a holiday, and had no inkling of what was afoot.
Dr Bamford called again on the Monday. Observing that only one of his pills had been taken, he engaged Annie in conversation. Yet she felt too reduced to answer his questions audibly and, besides, he is very deaf. Dr Bamford suggested that Dr Knight, Annie's former guardian, should be sent for from Stafford. Dr Palmer, now much distressed by her illness—especially since his mother was also seriously indisposed, and being nursed night and day by Sarah—at once summoned him by a telegraphic message. Dr Knight drove over, and saw Annie the same afternoon. He is even older and deafer than Dr Bamford, and had to rely on Dr Palmer for an account of her symptoms. Having listened carefully, he pronounced her to be dangerously sick, and gave orders that she must not take anything fluid or solid for three hours. Then he went out, called on Dr Bamford and a few friends, and finding his patient seemingly better when he called back, prescribed a small dose of diluted prussic acid to relieve the retching. In the evening he returned to Stafford.
According to Eliza Tharm (and I believe her), Dr Palmer was very attentive to Annie, constantly kissing her hands or brow, stroking her checks and appealing to her: 'Pray get well, darling! Make a strong endeavour, for my sake and little Willie's.' She smiled faintly up at him, and murmured: 'It's best this way.' He gave her effervescing mixtures, and she intimated that they were most refreshing and made her feel better. Meanwhile, Mrs Ann Rowley had taken Eliza's place as a day-nurse; but Eliza remained on night duty.
On the Thursday, Sarah came to visit Annie again, found her asleep and, not wishing to disturb her, stole away.
On the Friday, Ben Thirlby, called in as a last hope, prescribed brandy and arrowroot, but this was never given Annie; for she died about dinner time. It was September
29th;
well I remember hearing the news at Rugeley railway station on my return that afternoon.
I immediately made it my business to question Eliza Tharm, Mrs Rowley, and Mrs Bradshaw. Mrs Bradshaw told me that she had tasted, as well as cooked, every item of food or drink that went up to the poor lady, except for the medicine, which wasn't her affair. This Mrs Bradshaw is a good, honest woman as ever lived; but I could see that she suspected Dr Palmer of poisoning her beloved mistress—for she threw him hateful looks. Mrs Rowley, on the other hand, trusted him completely, and testified to the sincere and beautiful love between the two. Annie had whispered to her once: 'I'd do anything in the world for him, Mrs Rowley, indeed I would; and he for me, I believe, don't you?'
When Annie was at her last, Mrs Rowley rang the bell for Dr Palmer. He tiptoed into the bedroom and stood hesitating, aghast at the change in Annie's face. Mrs Rowley said: 'I fear your wife's dying.' He appeared stunned and hurt. He didn't come quite round the bed, Mrs Rowley says, but remained at the foot, staring down at Annie with a dazed look. Then
he walked away into the next roo
m, Mrs Rowley doesn't know why, and though he was back only half a minute later, she had died in the meanwhile.
'She's gone,' sobbed Mrs Rowley, and the news sent him stumbling out again. Mrs Rowley sat by the bed for the best part of half an hour, hoping that she had been mistaken, and that Annie was only in a deep coma. When she at last rose to fetch Dr Palmer, he was found in the next room, straddling a chair, with his arms folded on the rail and staring stupidly before him. She took him by the shoulder, and whispered: 'Come, Doctor, be a man!' He seemed not to hear, so she poured a little brandy into a tumbler and set it to his lips. At this he
came to himself, muttered: 'I th
ink I must have been asleep,' rubbed his cold hands together, and returned to the deathbed, where Mrs Rowley left him to indulge his grief.
As soon as I could find the time, I sought out Eliza. A wild look in her eye informed me that she was frightened. I drew her into the small room used for*sewing, and said: 'My girl, you need have no fear. Dr Bamford, Dr Knight, and Mr Tnirlby have all signed the death certificate to say that your mistress died of English cholera. There'll be no Coroner's inquest, you may be sure. But I want the truth! Now, I suspect poison, though I cannot suspect Mrs Bradshaw, or Mrs Rowley, or Dr Palmer, or yourself, of wilfully murdering my beloved friend. If it were not manifestly impossible for her to poison herself without detection —except perhaps at Liverpool—I should think that she had taken her own fife. Come, speak up, or I'll call the Police!'
The strange story that Eliza told completely satisfied me of its truth. Annie had asked her to slip certain powders into the gruel or tea while nobody was watching: she pretended that they were a charm procured from a wise woman over at Abbot's Bromley, and designed to restore her husband's love. Eliza believed Annie, and did as she was bidden. On the Thursday night, Annie whispered: 'Let him know quietly, when it's all over, that I have done it because I love him so. Suicide is the second crime I've committed for love of him, Eliza; but I trust God will pardon me, as our dear Lord Jesus Christ pardoned the woman in the Gospel "because she loved much".' So Eliza guessed that the powders must have caused her mistress's death.
I have lately learned that the poison was antimony, which she probably read about in her husband's medical books, and of which he kept a supply in the surgery. Yet even if I had known of this at
the
time, I should still have concealed my knowledge. Annie was dead, dead by her own hand,
though
using Eliza as a cat's paw, and nobody came under the suspicion of administering poison. Eliza had acted not only innoce
ntly, but nobly; for I could see
that
she was deep in love with the Doctor herself. An ill-natured girl would never have put the love-philtres in a rival's gruel to make her more attractive. Why, then, should I stir up
trouble by speaking the truth? Dr Palmer was, she had hinted, in a terrible state of indebtedness, and would be ruined but for the insurance which she had urged him to take on her life.