by Robin Odell
Francis Hughes, the head pigman at Oxgang Farm, made it known that he had been asked to dispose of a bottle of white arsenic powder by throwing it into the River Clyde. He was given this task while Mr McMillan was ill in bed and was told that the bottle contained arsenic. During his employer’s illness, Hughes helped him when he wanted a bath because his mobility was affected. He asked McMillan the cause of his illness and was told that he had been mixing arsenical rat poison. Apparently undaunted by the implications, Hughes kept the bottle of arsenic for his own use in killing rats and even supplemented it by asking the McMillans’ supplier for more.
Margaret McMillan appeared on trial in June 1940 before the Lord Justice Clerk, Lord Aitchison. John Glaister and Sydney Smith, both veteran investigators of arsenical poisoning cases in Egypt, gave medical evidence. Glaister believed that the symptoms of McMillan’s illness in 1937 were consistent with arsenical poisoning and he believed that all of the arsenic ingested at that time would have been excreted from the body well before his death three years later. Consequently, the arsenic found at post-mortem must have been ingested nearer to the time of death and his estimate was within a four-month period.
His basis for this estimate was an examination of the dead man’s hair and fingernails which showed arsenic passing out of the body over that period. He believed that the clinical picture over the last two weeks of life was fully consistent with arsenical poisoning and thought that a massive quantity of arsenic had been ingested in one or more doses within twenty-four hours of death. This conclusion was based chiefly on finding 2.33 grains of arsenic in the liver and 11.06 grains in the stomach and intestines. Asked by the Solicitor-General if the arsenic might have entered the body accidentally, Glaister replied, ‘… if one adopted this thesis, the accident must have been oft repeated and repeated over a long interval of time.’ On the question of suicide, his opinion was that it would be difficult to understand a person intent on suicide dragging out the process over such a long time.
Glaister was asked if he could give an estimate of the times when, ‘arsenic may have got into that man’s body,’ as the Solicitor-General quaintly phrased it. The expert witness repeated his earlier statement that the terminal illness presented a clinical picture of arsenical poisoning with indications of a rally on 5 January, followed by a rapid deterioration in the early hours of the following morning. His opinion was that, after McMillan took to his bed on 29 December, there were one or more doses of arsenic ingested up to 5 January with a further massive dose or doses within the last twenty-four hours of life. At this point, the Lord Justice Clerk intervened to press John Glaister on the possibilities for explaining McMillan’s death due to either accident or suicide. Lord Aitchison asked, ‘Supposing the facts in this case show – I ask you to assume – that this man had been getting arsenic into his system to an extent to make him seriously ill, off and on, over a period of months, would that fit in with any case of suicide that you have heard of?’
‘No,’ came the witness’s reply.
‘So far as you know,’ continued the judge, ‘has there been any case in which a man has sought to take his own life, prolonging the agony for a period of months?’
‘No,’ answered Glaister.
Asked by the judge if, in his experience, the witness had ever encountered a case of accidental poisoning by arsenic which continued over a period of months, John Glaister answered once more with an emphatic ‘No.’
Sydney Smith supported the opinion of his forensic colleague and it was left to Lord Aitchison to sum up for the jury which he did at some considerable length. He began by telling them there were occasions when human life was taken in which it was open to a jury to say that something less than murder had been committed. But, he was quick to point out, not in this case. The law would not permit an intermediate verdict of guilty of culpable homicide; the only possible verdicts were ‘Guilty’ or ‘Not Proven’. He acknowledged that poisoning was a secret crime and one that was difficult to detect, although that did not absolve the Crown from the requirement to prove it, relying on circumstantial evidence if necessary.
Having set the working limits for the jury’s deliberations, the judge went on to review the evidence. It was undisputed, he said, that Mrs McMillan’s husband had died of arsenical poisoning, the poison entering his body during the four to six months prior to his death. The medical evidence had shown with certainty that a massive dose of arsenic had been ingested within twenty-four hours of death. The question was, how did the fatal quantity enter his body; voluntarily, accidentally or by an act of deliberate poisoning on the part of someone else with the intention of killing him. ‘If he was murdered, was he murdered by the accused?’ asked Lord Aitchison, and continued, ‘Now, unless the Crown can prove the third of these propositions, that the late Mr McMillan was murdered, and murdered by the accused, unless the Crown can prove that and prove it satisfactorily, then you are bound to acquit.’
In his review of the medical evidence, the judge said all the experts agreed that McMillan had been ingesting arsenic for at least four months prior to his death. It was clear too that the doses had increased towards the end of his life with two large doses during the final weeks. ‘There is no doubt,’ said Lord Aitchison, ‘that man had got into his system a fatal dose of arsenic.’ The question was how did he get it?
Acknowledging his awareness of history, His Lordship made a reference to the trial of Madeleine Smith for murder by arsenical poisoning, ‘in this very courtroom.’ He quoted part of the judge’s charge to the jury on that occasion in 1857, in which he stressed that whatever doubts there may have been about her defence, the evidence against her must be convincing and with no room for conjecture. Echoing the verdict of their predecessors eighty-three years before, the jury gave the benefit of doubt to Margaret McMillan by finding the charges against her ‘Not Proven’.
It was said after the Oxgang Farm trial that John Glaister considered omitting the chapter on arsenical poisoning from his book on forensic medicine on the grounds that, ‘there will never be another case.’ He was nearly right, for there were only two further convictions during his lifetime – Sergeant Marcus Marymont in 1958 and William Waite in 1970.
His purpose in giving accounts of a number of murders by poisoning in The Power of Poison was to explore the difficulties of assessing the evidence in such cases. He was aware of the power of circumstantial evidence but emphasised the wide gulf which existed between the apparent evidence of guilt and legal proof. Science could play what he described as a supporting role in the work of criminal investigation. He warned of the need for the scientific expert to keep an open and unbiased mind – a theme to which he returned many times.
In his book, Final Diagnosis, Glaister remarked on the differences between English and Scottish practices in the investigation of crime. In England, it was a three-part system, involving the police, a Home Office laboratory scientist and a forensic pathologist. Whereas, in Scotland, the roles of the scientist and pathologist were combined. Glaister was perhaps uniquely qualified for this task with his qualifications as a doctor, scientist and barrister.
Throughout his career, he was an exponent of the need for forensic pathologists to draw on expertise outside their own disciplines. Forensic science had moved quickly since Spilsbury’s day so that the role of the self-reliant expert was no longer tenable. Glaister had always shown his willingness to call in other experts and to work closely with them as he had demonstrated in his close cooperation with Professor Brash, the anatomist, in the Ruxton case.
He advocated a unified medico-legal institution for the United Kingdom which would bring together all the essential elements of diverse professional disciplines, with their expertise and experience, under one form of management. He presaged the theme echoed later by Francis Camps and both men left a lasting legacy in the university departments of forensic medicine which they established as prototypes for the future, Glaister at Glasgow and Camps in London.
In th
e twenty-first century, these concepts of integrated expertise and forensic management would reach fruition in the shape of the multi-disciplined crime laboratory in which crime scene evidence could be comprehensively processed and examined. John Glaister’s meticulous archives of mammalian hair samples, recorded in albums of photo-micrographs, would be transformed by computer technology into digitised images available for instant comparison with trace evidence.
It was a progression which epitomised Glaister’s raison d’être which was that every crime left a trace, however faint, which would lead investigators to the perpetrator. He wrote, ‘… every year that passes, the skills of forensic medicine are growing, its new techniques are probing forward.’ The evolution of forensic science has justified his optimism. He quoted Ralph Waldo Emerson, the American poet and essayist, who wrote, ‘… there is no den in the wide world to hide a rogue.’
John Glaister retired in 1962 and relinquished his chair as Regius Professor. Thus ended an era in which Glaisters, father and son, had served as successive professors at Glasgow University for sixty-five years. It had been a period of immense advancement on which both Glaisters left their impressive pioneering stamp. In retirement, Glaister continued to lecture, passing on the fruits of his learning to a new generation, and he also worked for the community by being elected a County Councillor.
He died in hospital in 1971 at the age of seventy-nine. Perhaps, inevitably, the obituaries laid emphasis on the father and son succession. The Glasgow Herald, in its appreciation published on 5 October 1971, noted that, ‘Their continuous period of service must be one of the longest given by one family to a single university.’ At the memorial service held in the university chapel, he was remembered as a ‘kindly, soft-hearted man’ who always had time for conversation.
Chapter Four
THE MENTOR
Francis Camps
PEERING OVER HIS HALF GLASSES, with a pipe in his mouth and a forensic artefact in his hands, Francis Camps epitomised the popular approach to his subject. He enjoyed publicity where other pathologists preferred to shun it. A newspaper headline declaring ‘Inquest on a woman who died 5,000 years ago: Dr Camps Investigating’, was typical of his involvement. This particular report concerned a skull found in 1962 at a Stone Age Settlement in Middlesex. The newspaper reported that the ‘famous pathologist’ was subjecting the remains to the full ‘forensic treatment’.
Camps also courted controversy during his career by embracing views which antagonised his contemporaries; deliberately, according to some critics. He liked to challenge established views and, to that extent, was something of a maverick. In common with many of the great vocational callings, forensic pathology has its moments of professional jealousy. As its chief practitioners were frequently called upon to perform in public, this was probably inevitable. Spilsbury, the loner, was aloof to criticism, Smith was genuinely a public figure and Glaister was essentially a back-room boy. Camps and Simpson represented the last of their kind in a changing profession where individual flare was giving way to teamwork and technology. Perhaps sensing that the age of the great medical detective was coming to an end, they both wanted to make their mark, first as collaborators and then as rivals.
Francis Edward Camps was born on 28 June 1905 at Teddington, Middlesex, where his father had built up a successful medical practice. Francis was the only one of old Dr Camps’s three sons who followed in his father’s footsteps by choosing a career in medicine. He also, it seems, followed his father’s inclination for confrontation. Dr Camps senior had a reputation for being somewhat cantankerous, although he had a shrewd bedside manner with his wealthy patients. Francis proved to be an individual with restless energy and an enormous capacity for work.
He studied at Marlborough College and the University of Neuchatel in Switzerland before qualifying as a doctor at Guy’s Hospital in 1928. After working as a house physician at Guy’s, he moved on to the School of Tropical Medicine at the University of Liverpool to take further qualifications. Like many young doctors, Camps could not decide whether to go into general practice or to specialise. He perhaps had a notion that, equipped with a diploma in tropical medicine, he might seek an appointment in the British Colonial Service.
Despite the lure of overseas travel, Camps went into general practice at Chelmsford and spent part of his time at Chelmsford and Essex Hospital. With his indefatigable appetite for work, he coped easily with two jobs and very quickly became the hospital’s honorary pathologist. Having drifted into the field of pathology, he decided in 1935 to specialise in this subject. The Essex Police began to seek his advice in crime investigation work and, so, he began to lay the foundations for his later reputation. Camps was rejected for military service because he was insufficiently fit, although he worked as consultant pathologist to the emergency medical services while continuing to be based at Chelmsford.
As Sir Bernard Spilsbury’s domination began to wane, the way was clear for a successor. Camps gravitated to London where he encountered Keith Simpson who was based at Guy’s and Donald Teare working from St George’s with whom he shared the pathology cases. They were often referred to as ‘The Three Musketeers’, but that was in the early days before a keen sense of rivalry took hold.
In 1945, London Hospital Medical College set up a department of forensic medicine and appointed Francis Camps to run it with the status of lecturer. This gave him a firm base and he quickly set about devoting his energies to building up what came to be acknowledged as one of the foremost centres of forensic medicine. He had the vision to realise that traditional morbid anatomy allied to self-educated detective work was not enough. His ambition was to modernise forensic medicine by bringing together specialists from many different disciplines and at the same time to revitalise academic training methods.
His single-mindedness often left others trailing in his wake and his modest requirements for sleep were almost legendary. He despised tiredness and illness and often worked late into the night either in the laboratory or post-mortem room. Many of those who worked with him admired his energy but also found his personality wearing. Conversation with Camps was usually a monologue, with him doing the talking, and he tended to be demanding and unforgiving. Some of his colleagues, and a number of his peers, found him a difficult man to deal with. And there were those who thought he tried too assiduously to gain public recognition. Whatever the shortcomings of his temperament, there was no doubting his capability as a forensic pathologist. He set a personal example of a high work rate and surrounded himself with talented people. He also had the knack of the gifted organiser who could persuade those in authority to accede to his requests. This earned him a reputation for ‘empire building’ at London Hospital and he did not endear himself to Keith Simpson by boasting that he had established an unequalled forensic service.
In the immediate post-war years, Camps worked closely with Sir Bentley Purchase, the St Pancras coroner, and the two men became close friends. The North London coroners’ circuit provided ample work for Camps and other pathologists. Most of it was routine; the investigation of suspicious remains and death in questionable circumstances. As all pathologists must, Camps had his fair share of rotting human remains to examine and also the victims of fatal violence.
The 1950s saw the beginnings of Camps’s rise as a public figure. First, came the case of the torso found in the Essex Marshes, a discovery which prompted large newspaper headlines. On 21 October 1949, Sidney Tiffin was enjoying a wild fowling excursion in Dergie Marshes, Essex. The area of wetland north of the Thames Estuary was a desolate haven for wildlife, relatively free from human intrusion. As he moved about among the reeds, Tiffin spotted a bundle floating in the water. His first thought was that it was a drogue parachute from an RAF training plane, so he ignored it. Later, he had second thoughts and reasoned that it might be worth his while retrieving the chute and returning it to the RAF.
On closer inspection, the bundle turned out to be a felt-covered package secured with rope. His c
uriosity aroused, Tiffin cut the wrappings and to his horror revealed a headless human torso clothed in shirt and pants. The head and legs were missing and the hands were fastened together with a leather strap. Hastily covering the grisly remains and securing them to a stake driven into the mud to mark their location, Tiffin rushed off to fetch the police. Two police constables guided by Tiffin retrieved the bundle and took it to St John’s Hospital mortuary at Chelmsford. Chief Superintendent G.H. Totterdell, Head of Essex CID, immediately sent for Dr Camps. The two men knew each other well and Essex was very much the pathologist’s parish, although he was acting in his capacity as Home Office pathologist.
Camps carried out a post-mortem examination from which he concluded that the torso, which was male, had been dismembered using a sharp knife and a saw. Cause of death was due to five stab wounds in the chest. Judging from the external appearance of the remains, he thought the torso might have been in the water for about twenty-one days. The nature of the post-mortem injuries, including multiple rib fractures and damage to the spine, indicated that the torso might have been dropped from a height. In order to determine the identity of the victim, fingerprint impressions were needed. Totterdell described how Camps removed the entire skin of the hands by making an incision around the wrists and peeling it off like a pair of rubber gloves.
Looking at the dark pigmentation of the skin, the detective was fairly certain the remains were those of Stanley Setty, a London businessman who had been reported missing. He was an Iraqi by birth who worked as a car dealer. When he went missing on 4 October, he was carrying £1,000 in £5 notes, the proceeds of car sales. Totterdell told Camps, ‘I think we’ve got Setty’s torso here.’ His intuition proved correct when Chief Superintendent Fred Cherrill, Scotland Yard’s fingerprint expert, reported back to Totterdell, ‘It’s Setty all right.’