The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack

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by R. Austin Freeman


  On entering the bedroom, we found poor Burnaby lying half-undressed on the bed and in a very pitiable state; terrified, physically distressed and inclined to ramble mentally. His wife knelt by the bed, white-faced, red-eyed and evidently panic-stricken, though she was quite quiet and self-restrained. As we entered, she rose to make way for us, and while we were examining the patient’s pulse and listening to his racing heart, she silently busied herself with the preparations for administering the stimulants.

  “You don’t think he is going to die, do you?” she whispered, as Dr. Burnaby handed me back my stethoscope.

  “It is no use thinking,” he replied dryly—and I thought rather callously—“we shall see,” and with this he turned his back to her and looked at his brother with a gloomy frown.

  For more than an hour that question was an open one. From moment to moment I expected to feel the wildly-racing pulse flicker out; to hear the troubled breathing die away in an expiring rattle. From time to time we cautiously increased the antidotes and administered restoratives, but I must confess that I had little hope. Dr. Burnaby was undisguisedly pessimistic. And as the weary minutes dragged on, and I looked momentarily for the arrival of the dread messenger, there would keep stealing into my mind a question that I hardly dared to entertain. What was the meaning of it all? Whence had the poison come? And why, in this household, had it found its way to Burnaby alone—the one inmate to whom it was specially deadly?

  At last—at long last—there came a change; hardly perceptible at first, and viewed with little confidence. But after a time it became more pronounced; and then, quite rapidly, the symptoms began to clear up. The patient swallowed with ease, and great relish, a cup of coffee; the heart slowed down, the breathing became natural, and presently, as the morphine began to take effect, he sank into a doze which passed by degrees into a quiet sleep.

  “I think he will do now,” said Dr. Burnaby, “so I won’t stay any longer. But it was a near thing, Jardine; most uncomfortably near.”

  He walked to the door, where, as he went out, he turned and bowed stiffly to his sister-in-law. I followed him down the stairs, rather expecting him to revert to the subject of his visit to me. But he made no reference to it, nor, indeed, did he say anything until he stood on the doorstep with his bag in his hand. Then he made a somewhat cryptic remark: “Well, Jardine,” he said, “the Durham Book saved him. But for those collotypes, he would be a dead man.,” and with that he walked away, leaving me to interpret as best I could this decidedly obscure remark.

  A quarter of an hour later, as Burnaby was peacefully asleep and apparently out of all danger, I took my own departure, and as soon as I was outside the house, I proceeded to put into execution a plan that had been forming in my mind during the last hour. There was some mystery in this case that was evidently beyond my powers to solve. But solved it had to be, if Burnaby’s life was to be saved, to say nothing of my own reputation; so I had decided to put the facts before my friend and former teacher, Dr. Thorndyke, and seek his advice, and if necessary, his assistance.

  It was now past ten o’clock, but I determined to take my chance of finding him at his chambers, and accordingly, having found a taxi, I directed the driver to set me down at the gate of Inner Temple Lane. My former experience of Thorndyke’s habits led me to be hopeful, and my hopes were not unjustified on this occasion, for when I had mounted to the first pair landing of No. 5A King’s Bench Walk, and assaulted the knocker of the inner door, I was relieved to find him not only at home, but alone and disengaged. “It’s a deuce of a time to come knocking you up,” I said, as he shook my hand, “but I am in rather a hole, and the matter is urgent, so—”

  “So you paid me the compliment of treating me as a friend,” said he. “Very proper of you. What is the nature of your difficulty?”

  “Why, I’ve got a case of recurrent atropine poisoning and I can make absolutely nothing of it.”

  Here I began to give a brief outline sketch of the facts, but after a minute or two he stopped me.

  “It is of no use being sketchy, Jardine,” said he. “The night is young. Let us have a complete history of the case, with particulars of all the persons concerned and their mutual relations. And don’t spare detail.”

  He seated himself with a notebook on his knee, and when he had lighted his pipe, I plunged into the narrative of the case, beginning with the eye-drop incident and finishing with the alarming events of the present evening.

  He listened with close attention, refraining from interrupting me excepting occasionally to ask for a date, which he jotted down with a few other notes. When I had finished, he laid aside his notebook, and, as he knocked out his pipe, observed: “A very remarkable case, Jardine, and interesting by reason of the unusual nature of the poison.”

  “Oh, hang the interest!” I exclaimed. “I am not a toxicologist. I am a general practitioner; and I want to know what the deuce I ought to do.”

  I think,” said he, “that your duty is perfectly obvious. You ought to communicate with the police, either alone or in conjunction with some member of the family.”

  I looked at him in dismay. “But,” I faltered, “what have I got to tell the police?”

  “What you have told me,” he replied; “which, put in a nutshell, amounts to this: Frank Burnaby has had three attacks of atropine poisoning, disregarding the eye-drops. Each attack has appeared to be associated with some article of food prepared by Mrs. Burnaby and supplied by Mr. Cyril Parker.”

  “But, good God!” I exclaimed, “you don’t suspect Mrs. Burnaby?”

  “I suspect nobody,” he replied. “It may not be criminal poisoning at all. But Mr. Burnaby has to be protected, and the case certainly needs investigation.”

  “You don’t think I could make a few inquiries myself first?” I suggested.

  He shook his head. “The risk is too great,” he replied. “The man might die before you reached a conclusion; whereas a few inquiries made by the police would probably put a stop to the affair, unless the poisoning is in some inconceivable way inadvertent.”

  That was what his advice amounted to, and I felt that he was right. But it put on me a horribly unpleasant duty; and as I wended homewards I tried to devise some means of mitigating its unpleasantness Finally I decided to try to persuade Mrs. Burnaby to make a joint communication with me.

  But the necessity never arose. When I made my morning visit, I found a taxicab drawn up opposite the door and the housemaid who admitted me looked as if she had seen a ghost.

  “Why, what is the matter, Mabel?” I asked, as she ushered me funereally into the drawing-room.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, sir. Something awful, I’m afraid. I’ll tell them you are here.” With this she shut the door and departed.

  The housemaid’s manner and the unusually formal reception filled me with vague forebodings. But even as I was wondering what could have happened, the question was answered by the entry of a tall man who looked like a guardsman in mufti.

  “Dr. Jardine?” he asked; and as I nodded, he explained, presenting his card, “I am Detective Lane. I have been instructed to make some inquiries in respect of certain information which we have received. It is stated that Mr. Frank Burnaby is suffering from the effects of poison. So far as you know, is that true?”

  “I hope he is recovered now,” I replied, “but he was suffering last night from what appeared to be atropine poisoning.”

  “Have there been any previous attacks of the same kind?” the sergeant asked.

  “Yes,” I answered. “This was the fifth attack; but the first two were evidently due to some eye-drops that he had used.”

  “And in the case of the other three; have you any idea as to how the poison came to be taken? Whether it was in the food, for instance?”

  “I have no idea, sergeant. I know nothing more than what I have told you; and, of course, I am not going to make any guesses. Is it admissible to ask who gave the information?”

  “I am
afraid not, sir,” he replied. “But you will soon know. There is a definite charge against Mrs. Burnaby—I have just made the arrest—and we shall want your evidence for the prosecution.”

  I stared at him in utter consternation. “Do you mean,” I gasped, “that you have arrested Mrs. Burnaby?”

  “Yes,” he replied; “on a charge of having administered poison to her husband.”

  I was absolutely thunderstruck. And yet, when I remembered Thorndyke’s words and recalled my own dim and hastily-dismissed surmises, there was nothing so very surprising in this shocking turn of events.

  “Could I have a few words with Mrs. Burnaby?” I asked.

  “Not alone,” he replied, “and better not at all. Still, if you have any business—”

  “I have,” said I; whereupon he led the way to the dining-room, where I found Mrs. Burnaby seated rigidly in a chair, pale as death, but quite calm though rather dazed. Opposite her a military-looking man sat stiffly by the table with an air of being unconscious of her presence, and he took no notice as I walked over to his prisoner and silently pressed her hand.

  “I’ve come, Mrs. Burnaby,” said I, “to ask if there is anything that you want me to do. Does Burnaby know about this horrible affair?

  No,” she answered. “You will have to tell him if he is fit to hear it; and if not, I want you to let my father know as soon as you can. That is all; and you had better go now, as we mustn’t detain these gentlemen. Good-bye.”

  She shook my hand unemotionally, and when I had faltered a few words of vague encouragement and sympathy, I went out of the room, but waited in the hall to see the last of her.

  The police officers were most polite and considerate. When she came out, they attended her in quite a deferential manner. As the sergeant was in the act of opening the street door, the bell rang; and when the door opened it disclosed Mr. Parker standing on threshold. He was about to address Mrs. Burnaby but she passed him with a slight bow, and descended the steps, preceded by the sergeant and followed by the detective. The former held the door of the cab open while she entered, when he entered also and shut the door. The detective took his seat beside the driver and the cab moved off.

  “What is in the wind, Jardine?” Parker asked looking at me with a distinctly alarmed expression. “Those fellows look like plain-clothes policemen.”

  “They are,” said I. “They have just arrest Mrs. Burnaby on a charge of having attempted to poison her husband.”

  I thought Parker would have fallen. As it was, he staggered to a hall chair and dropped on it in a state of collapse. “Good God!” he gasped. “What a frightful thing! But there can’t possibly be any evidence—any real grounds for suspecting her. It must be just a wild guess. I wonder who started it.”

  On this subject I had pretty strong suspicions, but I did not mention them; and when I had seen Parker into the dining-room and explained matters a little further I went upstairs, bracing myself for my very disagreeable task.

  Burnaby was quite recovered, though rather torpid from the effects of the morphine. But my news roused him most effectually. In a moment he was out of bed, hurriedly preparing to dress; and though his pale, set face told how deeply the catastrophe had shocked him, he was quite collected and had all his wits about him.

  “It’s of no use letting our emotions loose, doctor,” said he, in reply to my expressions of sympathy. “Margaret is in a very dangerous position. You have only to consider what she is—a young, beautiful woman—and what I am, to realise that. We must act promptly. I shall go and see her father; he is a very capable lawyer; and we must get a first-class counsel.”

  This seemed to be an opportunity for mentioning Thorndyke’s peculiar qualifications in a case of this kind, and I did so. Burnaby listened attentively, apparently not unimpressed; but he replied cautiously: “We shall have to leave the choice of the counsel to Harratt; but if you care, meanwhile, to consult with Dr. Thorndyke, you have my authority. I will tell Harratt.”

  On this I took my departure, not a little relieved at the way he had taken the evil tidings; and as soon as I had disposed of the more urgent part of my work, I betook myself to Thorndyke’s chambers, just in time to catch him on his return from the Courts.

  “Well, Jardine,” he said, when I had brought the history up to date, “what is it that you want me to do?”

  “I want you to do what you can to establish Mrs. Burnaby’s innocence,” I replied.

  He looked at me reflectively for a few moments; then he said, quietly but rather significantly: “It is not my practice to give ex parte evidence. An expert witness cannot act as an advocate. If I investigate the evidence in this case, it will have to be at your risk, as representing the accused, since any fact, no matter how damaging, which is in the possession of the witness must be disclosed in accordance with the terms of the oath, to say nothing of the obvious duty of every person to further the ends of justice. Speaking as a lawyer, and taking the known facts at their face value, I do not advise you to employ me to investigate the case at large. You might find that you had merely strengthened the hand of the prosecution.

  “But I will make a suggestion. There seems to me to be in this case a very curious and interesting possibility. Let me investigate that independently. If my inquiries yield a positive result, I will let you know and you can call me as a witness. If they yield a negative result, you had better leave me out of the case.”

  To this suggestion I necessarily agreed; but when I took my leave of Thorndyke I went away with a sense of discouragement and failure. His reference to “the face value of the known facts” clearly implied that those facts were adverse to the accused; while the “curious possibility” suggested nothing but a forlorn hope from which he had no great expectations.

  I need not follow the weary business in detail. At the first hearing before the magistrate the police merely stated the charge and gave evidence of arrest, both they and the defence asking for a remand and neither apparently desiring to show their hand. Accordingly the case was adjourned for seven days, and as bail was refused, the prisoner was detained in custody.

  During those seven dreary days I spent as much time as I could with Burnaby, and though I was filled with admiration of his fortitude and self his drawn and pallid face wrung my heart. In those few days he seemed to have changed into an old man. At his house I also met Mr. Harratt, Mrs. Burnaby’s father, a fine, dignified man and a typical old lawyer; and it was unspeakably pathetic to see the father and the husband of the accused woman each trying to support the courage of the other while both were torn with anxiety and apprehension. On one occasion Mr. Parker was present and looked more haggard and depressed than either. But Mr. Harratt’s manner towards him was so frigid and forbidding that he did not repeat his visit. At these meetings we discussed the case freely, which was a further affliction to me. For even I could not fail to see that any evidence that I could give directly supported the case for the prosecution.

  So six of the seven days ran out, and all the time there was no word from Thorndyke. But on the evening of the sixth day I received a letter from him, curt and dry, but still giving out a ray of hope. This was the brief message:

  “I have gone into the question of which I spoke to you and consider that the point is worth raising. I have accordingly written to Mr. Harratt advising him to that effect.”

  It was a somewhat colourless communication. But I knew Thorndyke well enough to realise that his promises usually understated his intentions. And when, on the following morning, I met Mr. Harratt and Burnaby at the court, something in their manner—a new vivacity and expectancy—suggested that Thorndyke had been more explicit in his communication to the lawyer. But, all the same, their anxiety, for all their outward courage, was enough to have touched a heart of stone.

  The spectacle that that court presented when the case was called forms a tableau that is painted on my memory in indelible colours. The mingling of squalor and tragedy, of frivolity and dread solemnity—the grave
magistrate on the bench, the stolid policemen, the busy, preoccupied lawyers, and the gibbering crowd of spectators, greedy for sensation, with eager eyes riveted on the figure in the dock—offered such a medley of contrasts as I hope never to look upon again.

  As to the prisoner herself, her appearance brought my heart into my mouth. Rigid as a marble statue and nearly as void of colour, she stood in the dock, guarded by two constables, looking with stony bewilderment on the motley scene, outwardly calm, but with the calm of one who looks death in the face; and when the prosecuting counsel rose to open the case for the police, she looked at him as a victim on the scaffold might look upon the executioner.

  As I listened to the brief opening address, my heart sank, though the counsel, Sir Harold Layton, K.C., presented his case with that scrupulous fairness to the accused that makes an English court of justice a thing without parallel in the world. But the mere facts, baldly stated without comment, were appalling. No persuasive rhetoric was needed to show that they led direct to the damning conclusion.

  Frank Burnaby, an elderly man, married to a young and beautiful woman, had on three separate occasions had administered to him a certain deadly poison, to wit, atropine. It would be proved that he had suffered from the effects of that poison; that the symptoms followed the taking of certain articles of food of which he alone had partaken; that the said food did actually contain the said poison; and that the food which contained the poison was specially prepared for his sole consumption by his wife, the accused, with her own hands. No evidence was at present available as to how the accused obtained the poison or that she had any such poison in her possession, nor would any suggestion be offered as to the motive of the crime. But, on the evidence of the actual administration of the poison, he would ask that the prisoner be committed for trial. He then proceeded to call the witnesses, of whom I was naturally the first. When I had been sworn and given my description, the counsel asked a few questions which elicited the history of the case and which I need not repeat. He then continued:

 

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