by Ellen Wood
“Do you know by whom?”
“I have no idea whatever, and I am not absolutely certain that she did say it. She appeared drowsy, spoke in low tones, and I did not precisely catch the words. I intended to ask her about it after she got better and was more equal to conversation. There are none of my own friends or acquaintance who bear the name of Crane — none that I can remember.”
“Did you take charge of her from that hour?”
“Certainly not. I should not do so without her being professionally resigned to me by Mr. Stephen Grey. I met Mr. Stephen in High Street the following day, Monday, and I requested him as a favour to retain charge of her until that evening or the following morning. I found so much to do for my patients after my short absence, that I had not time to meet him, before that, at Mrs. Crane’s. It was arranged that I should be there at seven in the evening, if I were able; if not, at ten the next morning.”
“Did you keep the appointment at seven?”
“No, I could not do so. I did get down, but it was more than an hour later, and Mr. Stephen had gone. Mrs. Crane appeared to be very well, except that she was a little flushed. She was in very good spirits, and I told her I should take formal possession of her the next morning at ten. She seemed to think I might have done so that day, and I explained to her how I had been driven with my patients. I inquired if she was not satisfied with Mr. Stephen Grey, but she expressed herself as being perfectly satisfied with him, and said he had been very kind to her.”
“Did you inquire of her then by whom she had been recommended to you?”
“I did not. She seemed restless, a little excited; therefore I put no questions to her of any sort, except as regarded her health.”
“Did the draught arrive while you were there?”
“Yes. Whilst I was talking with Mrs. Crane, I heard a ring at the front bell, and some one came upstairs, and entered the sitting-room. I thought it might be Mr. Stephen Grey, and stepped in to see, but it was the nurse. She had a small bottle of medicine in her hand, which she said was the composing draught, and upon looking at the direction, I saw that it was so.”
“Did you perceive that it bore any peculiar smell?”
“Yes, the moment I had it in my hands. Before I had well taken out the cork, the strong smell struck me. I thought it was oil of almonds; but I soon found it was prussic acid.”
“It smelt of prussic acid?”
“Very strongly. The nurse professed not to be able to smell it, which I could scarcely believe. I wondered why Mr. Grey should be administering prussic acid, especially in a composing draught, but it was not for me to question his treatment, and I returned the bottle to the nurse.”
“You did not suspect there was sufficient in it to kill her?”
Mr. Carlton stared, and then broke into a sort of bitter smile.
“The question is superfluous, sir. Had I suspected that, I should have taken better care than I did that she did not take it. Minute doses of prussic acid are sometimes necessary to be given, and I could not tell what symptoms had arisen in the patient that day. When I returned to Mrs. Crane’s chamber, which I did for a few minutes before leaving, I could not get the smell out of my head. The thought occurred to me, could there have been any mistake in making up the draught? — for of course we all know that errors have occurred, and not infrequently, especially when inexperienced apprentices have been entrusted to prepare them. An impulse prompted me to desire Mrs. Crane not to take the draught, and I did so. I”
“Did you acquaint her with your fears that there might be poison in it?”
Again the witness smiled. “Pardon me, Mr. Coroner; you do not know much of the treatment of the sick, or you would not ask the question. Had I said to the patient that I thought poison might have been put into her medicine by mistake, I should possibly have given her a dangerous fright; and all frights are dangerous to women in her condition. I told her I did not quite approve of the draught Mr. Stephen Grey had sent in, and that I would go and speak to him about it; but I charged her not to take it, unless she heard again from me, or from Mr. Grey, that she might do so.”
“How do you account, then, for her having taken it?”
“I cannot account for it: my words were as positive as they could well be, short of alarming her. I can only think that she forgot what I had said to her.”
“Did you also warn the woman — Pepperfly?”
“No. I deemed my warning to Mrs. Crane sufficient; and I did not see Mrs. Pepperfly about, when I left the house.”
“Do you not think, Mr. Carlton, it would have been a safer plan, had you put the suspected draught into your pocket?” inquired one of the jury.
“If we could foresee what is about to happen, we should all of us act differently in many ways,” retorted the witness, who seemed vexed that his prudence should be reflected on, and who possibly felt irritated that there should be any grounds for it. “When a calamity has happened, we say, ‘If I had known, I would have done so and so, and prevented it.’ You may be sure, sir, that had I known there was enough poison in that draught to kill Mrs. Crane, or that she would disregard my injunction, and take it, I should have brought it away with me. I have regretted not doing so ever since. But where’s the use of regretting? It would not recall her to life.”
“Go on, sir,” said the coroner.
“I went to the Messrs. Greys’. My intention was to see Mr. Stephen Grey, to tell him of the smell the draught bore, and inquire if it was all right. But I could not see Mr. Stephen Grey: the assistant, Mr. Whittaker, said he was out. I considered what to do; and determined to go home, make up a proper composing draught, and bring it down with me. I was rather longer over this than I had thought to be, for I found myself obliged to see a patient in the interim.”
“You deemed a composing draught necessary for her yourself, then?”
“Mr. Stephen Grey had deemed it so, and we medical men rarely like to call into question another’s treatment. But I did think it expedient that she should take a soothing draught, for she appeared to be flushed — rather excited, I should say. I was coming down with the fresh draught in my pocket, when I met the landlady in a wild state of alarm, with the news that Mrs. Crane was dead.”
“Were you the first with her after death?”
“I was the first, except the nurse; but I had not been in the room more than a minute when the Reverend Mr. Lycett followed me. We found her quite dead.”
“And, in your opinion, what was the cause?”
“The taking of prussic acid. There is no doubt about it. There was no mistaking the symptoms.”
“Look at this phial, Mr. Carlton,” continued the coroner: “does it bear any resemblance to the one which contained the fatal draught?”
“It appears to be like it. The directions and handwriting are similar. Oh yes,” he added, as he took out the cork, “it is the same: the smell is still in it.”
“Did you observe where the last witness, Pepperfly, put the bottle containing the draught, after you returned it to her? I mean when it was first delivered at the house.”
“I cannot tell where she put it. I did not notice.”
“You did not touch the bottle again, before you left the house?”
Mr. Carlton turned sharply round, facing the audience at the back of the room.
“Who called me?” he inquired.
There had been a great deal of talking, the last minute or two, amidst this crowd, and Mr. Carlton’s name was mentioned in conjunction with others; but no one would confess to having called him.
“I beg your pardon. Mr. Coroner,” he said, turning to resume his evidence: “I certainly thought some one called me; and that, whoever it might be, was guilty, considering the time and place, of disrespect to the law. You were inquiring if I had touched the phial again before I left the house, after resigning it to Mrs. Pepperfly: I neither touched it nor knew where it was.”
“If the proceedings are interrupted again, I shall order the room to b
e cleared,” said the coroner, directing his eyes and voice to that part whence the noise had proceeded. “Those who want to talk must go outside.”
The coroner glanced over his notes; he had apparently come to an end, or nearly so, of the examination of Mr. Carlton.
“Before you retire, I must ask you one more question,” said he, looking up. “Have you any clue to this mystery — any suspicion as to how the poison could have got into the draught?”
Mr. Carlton remained silent. Was he debating with himself whether he should tell of the face he had seen on the staircase only an hour before the death — the strange, dread face on which the moon was shining? It is certain that that mysterious face had haunted Mr. Carlton’s mind more than was pleasant, both at the time and since. Was he doubting whether to denounce it now, as something which had no business in the house, and which might have been connected with the mystery? or did he shrink from the ridicule that would attach to him, at confessing to superstitious fears?
“You do not answer,” said the coroner, amidst the dead silence of the court.
Mr. Carlton drew a long breath. His thoughts took a different bent, unconnected with the face.
“I cannot say that I suspect any one,” he said, at length. “Neither can I imagine how the poison could have been introduced into the draught, except in the making up, seeing that it smelt strongly of prussic acid when it came to Mrs. Crane’s.”
Another silence, broken by the coroner.
“Very well; that is, I believe, all I have to ask you, Mr. Carlton; and I am sure,” he added, “that the jury feel obliged to you for the ready and candid manner in which you have given your evidence.”
Mr. Carlton bowed to the coroner, and was retiring; but the coroner’s clerk, who appeared to have certain memoranda before him to which he occasionally referred, whispered something in the ear of the coroner.
“Oh, ay; true,” remarked the latter. “A moment yet, Mr. Carlton. Did you not encounter at Great Wennock, on Sunday evening, the person called Mrs. Smith, who took away this unhappy lady’s child?”
“I saw a person in the waiting-room of the station, who had a very young infant with her. There is little doubt but it was the infant in question.”
“You had some conversation with her. Did she give you any clue as to who the lady was?”
“She gave me none. I did not know what had occurred, and supposed the child to be the offspring of some resident at South Wennock. I told her that the child was too young and feeble to travel with safety, and she replied that necessity had no law — or something to that effect. I talked to her only a minute or two, and chiefly about the omnibus, which she said had bruised her much, in its reckless jolting over the ruts and stones. That was all.”
“Should you know her again?”
“I might do so; I am not sure. I had no very distinct view of her face, for it was growing dark.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“No, she did not.”
“That is all then, I think, Mr. Carlton.”
CHAPTER XII.
MR. CARLTON RECALLED.
AFTER Mr. Carlton’s dismissal, the coroner and jury consulted for some time together, and the result was that Nurse Pepperfly was called for again.
“Now, Mrs. Pepperfly,” the coroner began, “do you mean to repeat to me that the deceased lady made no objection to taking that draught?”
“She didn’t make none at all, my lord mayor. If she had, why should she have taken it? she was missis. Quite the contrairy of her objecting, it were; for she asked for it as soon as she’d swallowed her gruel; but I told her she must not take one right upon the other.”
“Mr. Carlton says he charged her not to touch the draught. And you tell me upon your oath that she took it without making any demur?”
“I tell you so, Mr. Mayor, upon my Bible oath, and I’d take twenty oaths to it, if you liked. But if you and the honourable corporation” (turning to the jury) “can’t believe me, why don’t you please ask the Widow Gould? — From nine o’clock, or a little before it, the time Mrs. Crane had her gruel, the widow never was out of the room at all, and she can speak to all that passed as correctly as me. Not that you’ll get much out of her,” added Mrs. Pepperfly, in a parenthesis, “for she’s a-shaking and sobbing with fright in the next room, afeared of being called in here. She thinks it’s like being tried, you see, gentlefolks, and she says she never was had up before a lord judge and jury in her life, and never stood at a transportation bar.”
After this luminous piece of information, Betsy Pepperfly finally retired, and the shaky Mrs. Gould was supported in, attired in the poke bonnet and the plaid shawl she had lent to Judith. To try to convince the widow that she was not about to be criminally arraigned was a hopeless task; her mind upon the subject of bars in general and courts in particular, presenting a mass of inextricable confusion. She carried some pungent smelling-salts, and some one had thrust into her hand a small bottle of vinegar, wherewith to bedew her handkerchief and face; but her shaking hand poured so much aside, that the whole room was impregnated with the odour.
“What’s your name, ma’am?” asked the coroner, when the business of swearing her had been got over with difficulty.
“Oh, dear gentlemen, do be merciful to me! I’m nothing but a poor widow!” was the sobbing answer.
“Well, what’s your name, if you are a widow?” returned the coroner.
“It’s Eliza Gould. Oh, goodness, be good to me!”
“Now, if you don’t just calm yourself and show a little common sense, perhaps you’ll be made to do it,” cried the coroner, who was a hot-tempered man. “What are you afraid of? — that you are going to be eaten?”
“I never did no wrong to nobody, as I can call to mind — and it’s a dreadful disgrace to be brought here, and me a lone widow!” hysterically answered Mrs. Gould, bedewing her eyebrows and nose with vinegar.
“How old are you, ma’am?” snappishly asked the coroner.
“Old?” shrieked Mrs. Gould. “Is this a court of that sort of inquiry?”
“It’s a court where you must answer what questions are required of you. How old are you, ma’am?”
Mrs. Gould moaned, and brought out in a tone scarcely audible, that she believed she might be as much as forty-two.
The coroner looked at her grey hairs and her wrinkles, and perhaps he was not disinclined for a minute’s sport.
“Forty-two,” said he in a loud voice to his clerk; “take it down. You have spoken correctly, ma’am, I hope,” he added, turning again to the witness. “This is a court of justice, remember, and you are upon your oath; you would not like to be tried for perjury.”
Mrs. Gould sobbed, and shrieked, and finally went off into real hysterics. When the bustle was over, the coroner began again.
“We have not quite got over the question of age. How old did you say you were?”
“Must I tell it?” sobbed Mrs. Gould.
“Of course you must. And now, ma’am, take notice that I ask you for the last time; I cannot have the moments of the court wasted in this manner. How old are you?”
“I’m only fifty-six,” howled Mrs. Gould, amidst a torrent of tears and vinegar and a roar of laughter from the room.
“Draw your pen through forty-two, Mr. Clerk; and now perhaps we can go on to business. What do you know regarding the young lady who took your rooms, Mrs. Gould?”
“I don’t know anything of her, except that she had a ring on her finger, and therefore must have been married,” replied the witness, whose answers in general life had a frequent tendency to veer from the point in question.
“Do you know where she came from, or why she came, or who her relations might be, or whether she had any?”
“She said Mrs. Fitch sent her to me, and she said her husband was travelling, and she said no more,” continued the witness between her sighs.
“Did she say where he was travelling, or what he was?”
“No, sir.
Oh me, I think I shall faint!”
“Perhaps you’ll be so complaisant as to wait till your evidence is over, and then faint,” suggested the coroner blandly. “Did she tell you that she purposed making a long stay?”
“She told me she meant to be ill at my house, and that she did not expect the illness until May. She made me tell her the names of the doctors at South Wennock, which I did, and I spoke up for the Mr. Greys, as was only neighbourly, but she said she would have Mr. Carlton.”
“Did she give any particular reason for choosing Mr. Carlton?”
“She said she had a prejudice against the Greys, through something she’d heard; and she said some friends of hers had recommended Mr. Carlton. But I’ve had it upon my mind, all along, that it was the cabrioily did it.”
“That it was what did it?” exclaimed the coroner, while the jury raised their faces.
“The cabrioily. She got me to describe about the Mr. Greys to her, what they were like; and she got me to describe about Mr.
Carlton, what he was like; and I did, sir, meaning no harm. I said that the Mr. Greys were pleasant gentlemen who contented themselves with a gig; and that Mr. Carlton was pleasant too, but grand, and had set up his cabrioily. I think that did it, sir, the cabrioily; I think she couldn’t resist choosing Mr. Carlton, after that.”
There was coughing and choking in the room, and the coroner’s clerk shook as he took down the evidence. The witness pronounced words after her own fashion, and the stress she laid upon the “oil” in cabrioily was something new; indeed, the word, altogether, was new, in her lips.
“She wrote a note to Mr. Carlton,” proceeded the witness, “and I got it taken to his house. And when the messenger came back with the news that he was away, she cried.”
“Cried!” echoed the coroner.
“Yes, sir. She said the note she had sent to Mr. Carlton engaged him, and she could not afford to pay two doctors. But we told her that if Mr. Grey attended for Mr. Carlton, she would only have to pay one. And that, or something else, seemed to reconcile her, for she let Mr. Stephen Grey be fetched, after all; and when it was over, she said how glad she was to have had him, and what a pleasant man he was. The oddest part of it all is, that she had no money.”