They Hanged My Saintly Billy (38 page)

Ten
minutes
later,
Cook
retired
to
his
bedroom,
and
presently came
back,
looking
very
pale.
He
told
Fisher,
who
was
sprawled on
the
sofa,
that
he
wished
to
make
a
request
of
him.

Fisher
led
Cook
to
his
own
sitting-room.
'What
ails
you,
friend J
ohnny?'
he
asked.

'I've
been
as
sick
as
a
cat,'
Cook
answered.
'I
do
believe
that damned
Palmer
dosed
my
grog,
for
a
lark.
Fisher,
pray
take
care of
these
banknotes,
like
a
good
fellow.
I
trust
nobody
but
you
in thi
s
Cave
of
Forty
Thieves;
and
Billy
Palmer
least
of
the
lot.' He
handed
over
a
bulky
packet,
tied
with
tape,
and
sealed.
Then he
muttered:
'Excuse
me,
my
dear
Sir,
I
must
vomit
again,'
and stumbled
off.

On
his
way
along
the
corridor,
he
passed
a
law-stationer
by
the name
of
Jones,
also
lodging
at
The
Raven.
Jones
remarked
to Fisher,
who
had
followed
Cook:
'He's
got
this
sickness
too,
that's knocking
people
down
like
ninepins.
They
all
act
as
though
they were
poisoned.'

'He
thinks
he
is
poisoned,'
rejoined
Fisher,
'and,
what's
more, he's
drunk
enough
to
accuse
his
friend
Billy
Palmer
of
the
deed. I
believe,
by
the
bye,
that
Billy's
treating
him
for
the
pox.'

Cook
then
lurched
into
Fisher's
sitting-room.
'I
swear
that
damned
Billy
Palmer
has
dosed
me!'
he
repeated;
but
before
he could
substantiate
the
remark,
out
he
had
to
run
again.

Fisher
and
Jones
followed
him
into
his
bedroom,
where
he
was vomiting
violently
into
a
wash-hand
basin.
'Let
me
send
for
a doctor,'
offered
Fisher.

'Pray
do
so
at
once,'
Cook
groaned.

A
certain
Dr
Gibson
arrived
at
half
an
hour
past
midnight. Cook
complained
of
pains
in
his
stomach
and
heat
in
his
throat, repeating
constantly:
'I
think
I
have
been
poisoned.'

Dr
Gibson
recommended
an
emetic,
but
Cook
said:
'No,
there's no
need
of
anything
from
a
chemist's
shop.
I
can
make
myself
sick on
warm
water.
I
often
do.'

A
drowsy
chambermaid
brought
him
a
jugful
of
warm
water. When
Cook
had
drained
it,
Dr
Gibson
ordered:
'Now
tickle
the back
of
your
throat
with
a
feather
from
your
pillow,
Mr
Cook, if
you
please!'

Cook
replied:
'There's
no
need
to
open
the
pillow,
either.
The handle
of
my
tooth
brush
will
do
as
usual.'

He
presently
vomited
up
the
water,
having
nothing
else
left to
offer
the
basin.
Dr
Gibson
laid
him
on
the
bed,
probed
his abdomen,
found
him
to
be
severely
constipated,
and
thereupon prescribed
compound
rhubarb
pills
and
calomel,
to
be
followed by
a
black
draught
of
senna
and
magnesia.
With
that,
he
turned on
his
heel
and
left
the
hotel.

Half
an
hour
later,
Fisher
knocked
up
Dr
Gibson
again,
telling him:
'Don't
go
fooling
about,
Sir;
give
my
friend
something
to settle
him
for
the
night!'
Dr
Gibson
aggrie
vedly
prepared
an anodyne
draught
and
paregoric,
which
Fisher
took
back
to
The Raven,
and
by
two
o'clock
in
the
morning
Cook
told
his
friends that
he
was
somewhat
improved.
No
longer
feeling
bound
to
wait up
for
Dr
Palmer,
who
had
some
time
before
disappeared,
they bade
Cook
good-night,
and
he
thanked
them
heartily.

At
nine
o'clock
Cook
arose,
shaky
and
feeble,
but
much
relieved by
an
undisturbed
sleep.
He
went
across
the
corridor
to
call
on Fisher,
from
whom
he
retrieved
his
packet
of
notes,
still
securely sealed.
Dr
Palmer
now
returned
to
The
Raven,
after
an
all-night absence.
He
found
Fisher
breakfasting,
and
said:'
Cook's
recovered, I'm
glad
to
see.
But
I
wish
the
damned
fool
wouldn't
publicly accuse
me
of
dosing
his
drink!
I've
a
good
mind
to
sue
him
for slander.'

'Then
what
ailed
him,
Billy?'
asked
Fisher.
'We
were
up
with him
until
the
small
hours.'

'He
was
beastl
y
drunk,
that's
what
he
was,'
cried
the
Doctor. 'And
I
keep
telling
him
that
drink
is
the
worst
th
ing
possible
for his
old
complaint.'

'Well,
at
least
his
stomach
has
got
a
long-delayed
clean-out,' remarked
Fisher,
not
wishing
to
argue
the
point.
'Dr
Gibson told
us
that
Johnny
can't
have
been
to
the
bogs
for
a
week
or more.'

There
is
a
certain
Mrs
Anne
Brooks
of
Manchester
who,
much against
the
wish
and
orders
of
her
husband,
a
prominent
Mancunian,
frequents
race-meetings,
bets
on
commission,
and
has
at her
disposal
a
number
of
jockeys
for
whom
she
secures
mounts. These
jockeys,
together
with
black-legs,
tipsters
and
other
members
of
her
private
intelligence
service,
form
what
the
French
call a
salon sportif
around
this
remarkable
personage.
Mrs
Brooks
had met
Dr
Palmer
in
th
e
street
on
the
Wednesday
evening;
and when
asked
what
news
there
was
of
a
horse
called
Lord
Alfred, which
the
Earl
of
Derby
had
entered
for
the
same
race
next
day as
Dr
Palmer's
Chicken,
she
gaily
answered:
'Nay,
Lord
Alfred's said
to
be
in
champion
form,
lad.'