The starting-point of the tragedy was a comparatively trivial event. By much poring over crabbed manuscripts, Mr. Burnaby developed symptoms of eye-strain which caused me to send him to an oculist for an opinion and a prescription for suitable spectacles. On the evening of the day on which he had consulted the oculist, I received an urgent summons from Mrs. Burnaby, and, on arriving at the house, found her husband somewhat seriously ill. His symptoms were rather puzzling, for they corresponded to no known disease. His face was flushed, his temperature slightly raised, his pulse rapid, though the breathing was slow, his throat was excessively dry, and his pupils widely dilated. It was an extraordinary condition, resembling nothing within my knowledge excepting atropine poisoning.
“Has he been taking medicine of any kind?” I asked.
Mrs. Burnaby shook her head. “He never takes any drugs or medicine but what you prescribe; and it couldn’t be anything that he has taken, because the attack came on quite soon after he came home, before he had either food or drink.”
It was very mysterious and the patient himself could throw no light on the origin of the attack. While I was reflecting on the matter, I happened to glance at the mantelpiece, on which I noticed a drop labelled “The Eye Drops” and a prescription envelope. Opening the latter I found the oculist’s prescription for the drops—a very weak solution of atropine sulphate.
“Has he had any of these drops?” I asked.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Burnaby. “I dropped some into his eyes as soon as he came in; two drops in each eye, according to the directions.”
It was very odd. The amount of atropine in those four drops was less than a hundredth of a grain; an impossibly small dose to produce the symptoms. Yet he had all the appearance of having taken a poisonous dose, which he obviously had not, since the drop-bottle was nearly full. I could make nothing of it. However, I treated it as a case of atropine poisoning; and as the treatment produced marked improvement, I went home, more mystified than ever.
When I called on the following morning, I learned that he was practically well, and had gone to his office. But that evening I had another urgent message, and on hurrying round to Burnaby’s house, found him suffering from an attack similar to, but even more severe than, the one on the previous day. I immediately administered an injection of pilocarpine and other appropriate remedies, and had the satisfaction of seeing a rapid improvement in his condition. But whereas the efficacy of the treatment proved that the symptoms were really due to atropine, no atropine appeared to have been taken excepting the minute quantity contained in the eye-drops.
It was very mysterious. The most exhaustive inquiries failed to suggest any possible source of the poison excepting the drops; and as each attack had occurred a short time after the use of them, it was impossible to ignore the apparent connection, in spite of the absurdly minute dose.
“I can only suppose,” said I, addressing Mrs. Burnaby and Mr. Parker, who had called to make inquiries, “that Burnaby is the subject of an idiosyncrasy—that he is abnormally sensitive to this drug.”
“Is that a known condition?” asked Parker.
“Oh, yes,” I replied. “People vary enormously in the way in which they react to drugs. Some are so intolerant of particular drugs—iodine, for instance—that ordinary medicinal doses produce poisonous effects, while others have the most extraordinary tolerance. Christisori, in his Treatise on Poisons, gives a case of a man, unaccustomed to opium, who took nearly an ounce of laudanum without any effect—a dose that would have killed an ordinary man. These drugs are terrible pitfalls for the doctor who doesn’t know his patient. Just think what might have happened to Burnaby if someone had given him a full medicinal dose of belladonna.”
“Does belladonna have the same effect as atropine?” asked Mrs. Burnaby.
“It is the same,” I replied. “Atropine is the active principle of belladonna.”
“What a mercy,” she exclaimed, “that we discovered this idiosyncrasy in time. I suppose he had better discontinue the drops?”
“Yes,” I answered, “most emphatically; and I will write to Mr. Haines and let him know that the atropine is impracticable.”
I accordingly wrote to the oculist, who was politely sceptical as to the connection between the drops and the attacks. However, Burnaby settled the matter by refusing point-blank to have any further dealings with atropine; and his decision was so far justified that, for the time being, the attacks did not recur.
A couple of months passed. The incident had, to a great extent, faded from my mind. But then it was revived in a way that not only filled me with astonishment but caused me very grave anxiety. I was just about to set out on my morning round when Burnaby’s housemaid met me at my door, breathing quickly and carrying a note. It was from Mrs. Burnaby, begging me to call at once and telling me that her husband had been seized by an attack similar to the previous ones. I ran back for my emergency bag and then hurried round to the house, where I found Burnaby lying on a sofa, very flushed, rather alarmed, and exhibiting well-marked symptoms of atropine poisoning. The attack, however, was not a very severe one, and the application of the appropriate remedies soon produced a change for the better.
“Now, Burnaby,” I said, as he sat up with a sigh of relief. “what have you been up to? Haven’t been tinkering with those drops again?”
“No,” he replied. “Why should I? Haines has finished with my eyes.”
“Well, you’ve been taking something with atropine in it.”
“I suppose I have, but I can’t imagine what. I have had no medicine of any kind.”
“No pills, lozenges, liniment, plaster, or ointment?”
“Nothing medicinal of any sort,” he replied. “In fact, I have swallowed nothing today but my breakfast; and the attack came on directly after, though it was a simple enough meal, goodness knows—just a couple of pigeon’s eggs and some toast and tea.”
“Pigeon’s eggs,” said I, with a grin, “why not sparrow’s?”
“Cyril sent them—as a joke, I think,” Mrs. Burnaby explained (Cyril, of course, was Mr. Parker), “but I must say Frank enjoyed them. You see, Cyril has taken lately to keeping pigeons and rabbits and other edible beasts, and I think he has done it principally for Frank’s sake, as you have ordered him a special diet. We are constantly getting things from Cyril now—pigeons and rabbits especially; and much younger than we can buy them at the shops.”
“Yes,” said Burnaby, “he is most generous. I should think he supplies more than half my diet. I hardly like to accept so much from him.”
“It gives him pleasure to send these gifts,” said Mrs. Burnaby; “but I wish it gave him pleasure to slaughter the creatures first. He always brings or sends them alive, and the cook hates killing them. As to me, I couldn’t do it, though I deal with the corpses afterwards. I prepare nearly all Frank’s food myself.”
“Yes,” said Burnaby, with a glance of deep affection at his wife, “Margaret is an artist in kickshaws and I consume the works of art. I can tell you, doctor, I live like a fighting cock.”
This was all very well, but it was beside the question; which was, where did the atropine come from? If Burnaby had swallowed nothing but his breakfast, it would seem that the atropine must have been in that. I pointed this out.
“But you know, doctor,” said Burnaby,” that isn’t possible. We can write the eggs off. You can’t get poison into an egg without making a hole in the shell, and these eggs were intact. And as to the bread and butter, and the tea, we all had the same, and none of the others seem any the worse.”
That isn’t very conclusive,” said I. “A dose of atropine that would be poisonous to you would probably have no appreciable effect on the others. But, of course, the real mystery is how on earth atropine could have got into any of the food.”
It couldn’t,” said Burnaby and that really was my own conviction. But it was an unsatisfactory conclusion, for it left the mystery unexplained; and when a length I took my leave, to contin
ue my rounds of visits, it was with the uncomfortable feeling that I had failed to trace the origin of the danger or to secure my patient against its recurrence.
Nor was my uneasiness unjustified. Little more than a week had passed when a fresh summons brought me to Burnaby’s house, full of bewilderment and apprehension. And indeed there was good cause for apprehension; for when I arrived, to find Burnaby lying speechless and sightless his blue eyes turned to blank discs of black, glittering with the unnatural “belladonna sparkle,”—when I felt his racing pulse and watched his vain efforts to swallow a sip of water,—I began to ask myself whether he was not beyond recall. The same question was asked mutely by the terrified eyes of his wife, who rose like a ghost from his bedside as I entered the room. But once more he responded to the remedies, though more slowly this time, and at the end of an hour I was relieved to see that the urgent danger was past, although he still remained very ill.
Meanwhile, inquiries failed utterly to elicit any explanation of the attack. The symptoms had set in shortly after dinner; a simple meal, consisting of a pigeon cooked en casserole by Mrs. Burnaby herself, vegetables and a light pudding which had been shared by the rest of the family, and a little Chablis from a bottle that had been unsealed and opened in the dining-room. Nothing else had been taken and no medicaments of any kind used. On the other hand, any doubts as to the nature of the attack were set at rest by a chemical test made by me and confirmed by the Clinical Research Association, Atropine was demonstrably present, though the amount was comparatively small. But its source remained an impenetrable mystery.
It was a profoundly disturbing state of affairs. The last attack had narrowly missed a fatal termination and the poison was still untraced. From the same unknown source a fresh charge might be delivered at any moment, and who could say what the result would be? Poor Burnaby was in a state of chronic terror and his wife began to look haggard and worn with constant anxiety and apprehension. Nor was I in much better case myself, for, whatever should befall, the responsibility was mine. I racked my brains for some possible explanation, but could think of none, though there were times when a horrible thought would creep into my mind, only to be indignantly cast out.
One evening a few days after the last attack, I received a visit from Burnaby’s brother, a pathologist attached to one of the London hospitals, but not in practice. Very different was Dr. Burnaby from his gentle, amiable brother; a strong, resolute, energetic man and none too suave in manner. We were already acquainted, so no introductions were necessary, and he came to the point with characteristic directness.
“You can guess what I have come about, Jardine—this atropine business. What is being done in the matter?”
“I don’t know that anything is being done,” I answered lamely. “I can make nothing of it.”
“Waiting for the next attack and the inquest, h’m? Well, that won’t do, you know. This affair has got to be stopped before it is too late. If you don’t know where the poison comes from, somebody does. H’m! And it is time to find out who that somebody is. There aren’t many to choose from. I am going there now to have a look round and make a few inquiries. You’d better come with me.”
“Are they expecting you?” I asked.
“No,” he answered gruffly; “but I’m not a stranger and neither are you.”
I decided to go round with him, though I didn’t much like his manner. This was evidently meant to be a surprise visit, and I had no great difficulty in guessing at what was in his mind. On the other hand, I was not sorry to share the responsibility with a man of his position and a relative of the patient. Accordingly, I set forth with him willingly enough; and it is significant of my state of mind at this time, that I took my emergency bag with me.
When we arrived Burnaby and his wife were just sitting down to dinner—the children took their evening meal by themselves—and they welcomed us with the ready hospitality that made this such a pleasant household. Dr. Burnaby’s place was laid opposite mine, and I was faintly amused to note his eye furtively travelling over the table, evidently assessing each article of food as a possible vehicle of atropine. “If you had only let us know you were coming, Jim,” said Mrs. Burnaby when the joint made its appearance, “we would have had something better than saddle of mutton. As it is, you must take pot-luck.”
“Saddle of mutton is good enough for me,” replied Dr. Burnaby. “But what on earth is that stuff that Frank has got?” he added, as Burnaby lifted the lid from a little casserole.
“That,” she answered, “is a fricassee of rabbit. Such a tiny creature it was; a mere infant. Cook nearly wept at having to kill it.”
“Kill it!” exclaimed the doctor; “do you buy your rabbits alive?”
“We didn’t buy this one,” she replied. “It was brought by Cyril—Mr. Parker, you know,” she added hastily and with a slight flush, as she caught a grim glance of interrogation. “He sends quite a lot of poultry and rabbits and things for Frank from his little farm.”
“Ha!” said the doctor with a reflective eye on the casserole. “H’m! Breeds them himself, hey? Whereabouts is his farm?”
“At Eltham. But it isn’t really a farm. He just keeps rabbits and fowls and pigeons in a place at the back of his garden.”
“Is your cook English?” Dr. Burnaby asked, glancing again at the casserole. “That affair of Frank’s has rather a French look.”
“Bless you, Jim,” said Burnaby, “I am not dependent on mere cooks. I am a pampered gourmet. Margaret prepares most of my food with her own sacred hands. Cooks can’t do this sort of thing,” and he helped himself afresh from the casserole.
Dr. Burnaby seemed to reflect profoundly upon this explanation. Then he abruptly changed the subject from cookery to the Lindisfarne Gospels and thereby set his brother’s chin wagging to a new tune. For Burnaby’s affections as a scholar were set on seventh- and eighth-century manuscripts and his knowledge of them was as great as his enthusiasm.
“Oh, get on with your dinner, Frank, you old windbag,” exclaimed Mrs. Burnaby. “You are letting everything get cold.”
So I am, dear,” he admitted, “but—I won’t be a minute. I just want Jim to see those collotypes of the Durham Book. Excuse me.”
He sprang up from the table and darted into the adjoining library, whence he returned almost immediately carrying a small portfolio.
“These are the plates,” he said, handing the portfolio to his brother. “Have a look at them while I dispose of the arrears.”
He took up his knife and fork and made as if to resume his meal. Then he laid them down and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t think I want any more, after all,” he said.
The tone in which he spoke caused me to look at him critically; for my talk with his brother had made me a little nervous and apprehensive of further trouble. What I now saw was by no means reassuring. A slight flush and a trace of anxiety in his expression made me ask, with outward composure but inward alarm: “You are feeling quite fit, I hope, Burnaby?”
“Well, not so very,” he replied. “My eyes are going a bit misty and my throat—” Here he worked his lips and swallowed as if with some effort.
I rose hastily, and, catching a terrified glance from his wife, went to him and looked into his eyes. And thereupon my heart sank. For already his pupils were twice their natural size and the darkened eyes exhibited the too-familiar sparkle. I was sensible of a thrill of terror, and, as I looked into Burnaby’s now distinctly alarmed face, his brother’s ominous words echoed in my ears. Had I waited “for the next attack and the inquest”?
The symptoms, once started, developed apace. From moment to moment he grew worse, and the rapid enlargement of the pupils gave an alarming hint as to the intensity of the poisoning. I darted out into the hail for my bag, and as I re-entered, I saw him rise, groping blindly with his hands, until his wife, ashen-faced and trembling, took his arm and led him to the door.
“I had better give him a dose of pilocarpine at once,” I said, gettin
g out my hypodermic syringe and glancing at Dr. Burnaby, who watched me with stony composure.
“Yes,” he agreed, “and a little morphine, too! and he will probably need some stimulant. I won’t come up; only be in the way.”
I followed the patient up to the bedroom and administered the antidotes forthwith. Then, while he was getting partially undressed with his wife’s help, I went downstairs in search of brandy and hot water, I was about to enter the dining-room when, through the partly-open door, I saw Dr. Burnaby standing by the fireplace with his open handbag—which he had fetched in from the hall—on the table before him, and in his hand a little Bohemian glass jar from the mantel piece. Involuntarily, I halted for a moment; and as I did so, he carefully deposited the little ornament in the bag and closed the latter, locking it with a small key which he then put in his pocket.
It was an excessively odd proceeding, but, of course, it was no concern of mine. Nevertheless, instead of entering the dining-room, I stole softly towards the kitchen and fetched the hot water myself. When I returned, the bag was back on the hall table and I found Dr. Burnaby grimly pacing up and down the dining room. He asked me a few questions while I was looking for the brandy, and then, somewhat to my surprise, proposed to come up and lend a hand with the patient.
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 111