Breaths of Suspicion

by Roy Lewis

  Gully grunted and sipped his porter, wiped his mouth with the back of his gnarled-knuckled hand. ‘Noon’s Folly? No, I been out of town. Up north. On your business, Mr James.’

  There was a sourness in his tone. As I believe I’ve intimated to you before, Ben Gully was a London man: he knew every nook and cranny in the rookeries, every shady waterman along the river, and every sharp who tried the game in the casinos, public houses and dens of ill repute from Stepney to Mill Hill. In the course of his business, he was a frequenter of dark haunts in Wapping, odorous alleys in St Giles and less than respectable locations behind the smart houses in Regent Street. However, I was aware from his expression that a sojourn in the north—or more precisely, the Midlands—was not to his taste.

  ‘So, was your visit productive?’ I asked.

  He watched me for a little while without answering. Finally, he grimaced and said, ‘I went to the races at Chester.’

  ‘Ha! A change of air, but still following the habits of a lifetime. Did you do well?’

  ‘Backed a few. Lost a bit. Won a bit.’

  ‘Chester Races used to be a favourite venue for Lord George Bentinck,’ I mused.

  Ben eyed me quizzically. ‘That gentleman caused you a lot of trouble when he was alive. I consider his death would have been a kind of relief to you, Mr James.…’ He hesitated, still eyeing me. ‘They never did really find out just how it came about, did they? Him dying up near Welbeck Abbey, I mean.’

  I shook my head. I had told Ben nothing of the part I had played in Bentinck’s demise. I made no reply now.

  Ben was silent for a little while, staring at his porter. Then he looked up at me with clouded eyes. ‘Anyway, to business. You asked me to make inquiries about the surgeon William Palmer. So I spent a week at the Chester Races. Watching the nags. Making a few contacts. Talking to people. Listening to the chatter. There was a great deal of that. In fact, Mr James, it was the common talk all week. Mr Palmer, he’s well known as a regular frequenter of Chester Races.’

  ‘So what is the talk mainly about?’

  Gully caressed a bloody nick on his recently shaven jaw. ‘First of all, what you asked me to look out for. There’s a lot of talk about the winning nag called Polestar, owned by the gent called Cook. Him who died in convulsions.’

  ‘You’d better tell me everything you’ve heard.’

  Alexander Cockburn had already received the brief for the prosecution of William Palmer for murder. He had asked me to be at his side, not least because I had already received a different brief in which Palmer was involved. My first contribution was to find out what was not in the instructions received by Cockburn—which was concerned mainly with the death of John Parsons Cook. We had to be ready for anything the defence might throw at us … for in my view the case against Palmer was weak.

  Cook and Palmer had been at the Shrewsbury races where Cook’s horse Polestar had won. Cook had been taken ill thereafter, regularly vomiting, managing to keep little down. He was not alone in his suffering: many in the area had been taken ill at that time. Finally, on the Saturday night after Palmer had returned from a visit to London, John Parsons Cook had died, after taking some pills administered by Palmer. Cook’s betting book had disappeared, and our brief called upon us to prove that Palmer had poisoned his friend Cook to avoid paying him what was owed to him. But there were too many holes in the case to afford me satisfaction—or belief that we could bring a successful prosecution.

  Ben twisted his mouth. He had lost a tooth since last I saw him. I wondered what the other man would have lost. The waiter was at my elbow. He placed the drink in front of me. Ben leaned back in his chair and grimaced. ‘Right. Well, first of all, the general conversation concerned Polestar. After the nag won last December, someone is supposed to have said to this man Cook, the owner of Polestar, he’d be lucky if he lasted the week.’

  ‘Lasted? How do you mean?’

  Gully shrugged. ‘They didn’t really pursue it … they just laughed. But then the gossip in the beer tent went on. I picked up all sorts of information. I went into Stafford and made further inquiries to see how far the locals went along with what I’d heard. In fact, the whole place was alive with chatter. Not least how after Polestar won, the aforesaid Mr John Parsons Cook, owner of the nag, he turned up his toes.’

  ‘As predicted.’

  ‘But that could just be gossip after the event, Mr James.’

  Frowning, I stroked my chin thoughtfully. I stared at Gully. ‘There’s more, of course.’

  ‘That’s right, Mr James.’ He took a deep breath. ‘From what I heard, Cook picked up nearly a thousand guineas at the course, with more to come, as a result of Polestar winning. But when he died, well there was no sign of the cash he must have picked up.’

  I had the feeling Ben’s account would be lengthy. We were well away from the serving hatch where the waiter obtained the drinks but I was aware of the enticing odours that were wafted from the kitchen, where pork chops were sizzling on the grill. ‘I think a couple of chops would go down well,’ I suggested quietly. ‘And meanwhile, you can tell me about the general feeling in Stafford.…’

  ‘And Rugeley,’ Ben nodded grimly as I placed the orders. He put down his mug and leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘It all circulates around William Palmer. He was a close friend of Polestar’s owner, Mr John Parsons Cook, and together they went to Chester Races that day. Palmer had a couple of horses running. He lost considerably. And he was with Cook the night the man died. But more than that, from what I’ve heard in Stafford and Rugeley, this Dr Palmer, well, you might say he’s got a bit of history.’

  ‘That’s what I need to hear.’

  ‘He’s been somewhat embarrassed for some time, by his financial commitments. Unwise investments.’ Ben’s eyes fixed on me as though to add something about my own position, then flicked away, aware he might be touching on a sore spot. ‘William Palmer’s been up to his eyes in debt as the result of spending money at Chester on horses of poor character, and on Liverpool whores of even less.’

  ‘Earnings?’

  ‘Steady,’ Ben shrugged. ‘But not large. His surgeon’s practice in Rugeley is not a flourishing one. And what with knock-kneed horses, cards and women of easy virtue.…’ He eyed me carefully, uncomfortably aware of my own predilections in those directions. I sipped my brandy and water. The chops were on the way. I waited, but Ben was silent for a little while, brow furrowed.

  ‘This William Palmer, well, it’s not just the races and whores. He’s got a history that’s, shall we say, unfortunate? He was the sixth of seven children: one sister drank herself to death and there’s a brother who worked diligently towards the same end, with the assistance of Dr Palmer, it seems. But his early history, well, Dr Palmer has a doting mother, Sarah Palmer. She arranged for him as a young man to be apprenticed to a Liverpool chemist. He wasn’t employed there long. He was caught with his fingers in the till but his mother saved him: she’s always seen him as the apple of her eye.’

  Ben paused, leaned back as a plate of sizzling chops was placed in front of him. He eyed the chops appreciatively. ‘Anyway, after the Liverpool incident, gossip reckons she persuaded a surgeon in Rugeley to give the lad a chance. He was took on as apprentice, but after various incidents of fraud, deceit and seduction he was told to leave. He showed up next at Stafford Infirmary. Went on to St Bart’s Hospital and finally qualified in 1846, Royal College of Surgeons. By way of a correspondence course—’

  ‘Let me guess, a correspondence course for which he never paid.’

  ‘You guessed right, Mr James.’

  In fact it was already in Cockburn’s brief. I was beginning to get bored. This was all so petty. I needed more than I had heard so far.

  Ben Gully sniffed, scratched his stubbly chin. ‘William Palmer then ups and gets married to one Anne Thornton, the daughter of an Army officer. Illegitimate, but she had prospects. On the strength of them prospects Palmer borrowed money and bought himself a
couple of nags, which he ran unsuccessfully, in between siring four sons and a daughter on the said Anne Thornton. Five children.…’ He sniffed. ‘The eldest is still alive.’

  I picked up the emphasis. I began to feel a slow, familiar cancer of suspicion in my chest. ‘The eldest? What about the others?’

  Ben wiped some ale from his chin. ‘Faded away. It’s reported Billy Palmer often said he regarded large families as ruinously expensive,’ Ben said coolly.

  ‘How did they die?’

  ‘Officially? Convulsions.’

  I was silent for a little while. Infant mortality was high. It could be just bad luck, or bad drains. But five out of six? Yet Ben Gully had not finished.

  ‘Some say he used to put poison with a little honey on his finger and let them suck.’

  I grunted sourly. ‘Gossip?’

  Ben Gully shrugged, leaned back and began to attack the plate of crisp pork chops as mine also arrived. He chewed his appreciatively. ‘You know, Mr James, you can say this about Stunning Sam, you don’t usually get chops liked these in this kind of establishment.… Anyway, there’s more to this Palmer story. His wife, Anne Thornton as was, like I said, she had prospects.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘She expected to get twelve thousand on her mother’s death. So it seems William Palmer invited the old lady to come for a holiday. She went to stay with them at Palmer’s house in Rugeley.’

  ‘And?’

  “The old lady got took ill, and turned up her toes. Sudden.’

  I was getting interested. I ignored my pork chops, while Ben champed at his. ‘And what might have been the certified cause of death?’

  ‘Apoplexy.’ Ben sighed. ‘A lot of chatter, but you know, things are funny in Rugeley and Stafford. In spite of all the murmuring, Palmer’s popular there. There’s people who say Palmer is much maligned, it’s all just malicious gossip about his children and his mother-in-law; but there’s others who reckon there’s no smoke without fire. Perhaps those he owes money to – you know what I mean. And apart from his family losses, there’s others. Palmer was friendly with one Leonard Bladen. They used to go to the races together, regular. They say Palmer borrowed money from Bladen, then Bladen had a big win at Chester, and suddenly he dropped dead about a week later. Strange thing was his widow couldn’t lay hands on his betting book.’

  ‘Which would have shown a record of what was owing to him.… Palmer was challenged?’ I asked.

  Ben Gully shook his head. ‘Inquiries began to be made. But then they was dropped. Mrs Bladen didn’t want to go on with it. Mrs Bladen reckoned Anne Palmer was very kind to her. A close friend. So she let things drop.’

  I sipped at my brandy and water thoughtfully. ‘All this is just local chatter, of course.’

  Ben sighed, as though contemplating the wickedness of Man. ‘There’s plenty more of it. William Palmer’s mother, Sarah Palmer, she had a lover. Name of Jeremiah Smith. It was through him that Palmer negotiated an insurance policy on the life of his own wife. Then guess what? Few weeks later, Palmer’s wife died after catching a chill at a concert in Liverpool.’ Ben paused, eyeing his rapidly disappearing chop. ‘It seems the grieving widower didn’t mourn long: he picked up thirteen thousand on that policy. He immediately paid off some debts—and within a month insured his drunken brother’s life for another fourteen thousand. This brother, he’s a man who would regularly toss off half a tumbler of raw spirits before turning black in the face.’

  These were details I needed to know in support of Cockburn’s brief. ‘You’re going to tell me that the brother died?’

  Gully nodded. ‘Not long after. Palmer sent for an undertaker, ordered a coffin and then coolly telegraphed the clerk of the course at Ludlow to find out where his horse had come in the last race.’

  I shook my head in disbelief. ‘Did the company pay out the insurance?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘When they discovered Palmer had tried it on with three other assurance companies, they demurred. Palmer didn’t fight it. So it seems that particular venture didn’t come off. But the story is he then tried to insure an acquaintance of his by the name of Bate. The proposal was refused. That didn’t stop our surgeon going along with his friend Cook to the Shrewsbury Handicap where they both had horses running. Cook picked up at least eight hundred on the course and was due to get the balance of two thousand from Tattersall’s. Palmer’s own horse, Chicken, did badly and he lost money. The story is that after the races the two men went back to the Raven Hotel. Cook was took ill that very night.’

  I nodded. ‘And shortly afterwards, died. This is the charge that’s to be brought against Palmer.’

  ‘Will you be able to use the rest? The brother, Anne Palmer, the mother-in-law, the children, the insurance companies—’

  ‘It’s background, Ben, background, maybe even idle chatter, but it might be crucial. If we can manage to bring it in.’

  I thought hard while Gully chomped his way through the chops, took a hunk of bread and wiped his plate. He looked up inquisitively. ‘So what’s to happen now, Mr James?’

  I smiled. ‘First of all, I shall be having a meeting with the remarkable Dr Palmer. Face to face. In a court of law.’

  3

  The hearing took place at the beginning of January at Westminster. William Palmer was at that time held at Stafford Gaol awaiting trial for the murder of John Parsons Cook and this was the only time that he was allowed outside the building: no doubt he appreciated the opportunity to visit the metropolis, for as I was about to discover he was a cool character, our horse-racing surgeon of Rugeley.

  Because of my background and experience in the Bankruptcy Court I was a natural choice as counsel to the moneylender Padstone. The brief informed me that Mr Padstone had made a loan of £2,000 to William Palmer, backed by a bill of exchange, which had apparently been signed by Palmer’s mother, the widow Sarah Palmer. Padstone was now seeking to recover the two thousand but he was facing a problem. Sarah Palmer denied that the signature on the bill was hers: it had been forged.

  The defence produced Mrs Palmer: she was an elderly, grey-haired but spirited lady, well turned out in the latest fashion and bold and firm in her statements. In my examination I was unable to shake her in her denials: she averred stoutly she had not signed the bill. She was then supported by sworn statements from three of her children, siblings of William Palmer. First there was George who swore the signature was not that of his mother; he was followed by his sister Sarah who swore to the same truth and finally the Reverend Thomas Palmer appeared to say the same thing: as a man of the cloth his evidence was particularly damaging to my client.

  For as I had already explained to the moneylender Padstone when he first came to my chambers for advice, if the signature on the bill was indeed forged, the bill was worthless. It would be necessary, therefore, to show that William Palmer had obtained the loan by false pretences and forgery, after which he himself could be charged with repayment of the loan—hence the present proceedings.

  Of course I had pressed the mother hard.

  ‘Madam, let us be precise. If this is not your signature, it must be a forgery. Since the loan was made to your son William Palmer, it is clear that he must have signed in your name, in order to obtain this money.’

  ‘That cannot be so,’ she averred stoutly. ‘My Billy would never seek to rob me so!’

  So, inevitably, I needed to have the surgeon himself in the witness box, to challenge him and, if possible, to get him to admit the forgery so redress could be obtained by his duped moneylender. I could see the burly, red-cheeked Mr Padstone leaning forward eagerly, with a hungry, angry look in his eye, when Palmer’s name was called and the door to the judge’s private room was thrown open.

  Mr Padstone was not the only eager face craning to get sight of the notorious witness. Indeed, it was a remarkable day. Since William Palmer’s arrest there had been a scramble among his creditors to obtain what money they could from his estate: it might prove more d
ifficult if he was to be hanged. His main assets were lodged in the racehorses he owned: Tattersall’s craftily put them up for sale on the very day Padstone v Palmer was heard, and the coincidence attracted a large gathering in the auction ring and resulted in excited competitive bidding. Westminster Hall was noisily crowded and the courtroom itself packed with urgent onlookers: demand for tickets of entry had been huge. Everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of the notorious surgeon from Rugeley. A collective sigh arose when he made his dramatic entrance, and the courtroom was then briefly silent as all observed him, coming into the dock in the custody of a large and muscular police officer with a black, bushy moustache.

  The man I saw in the witness box was then thirty-one years old but looked older, partly because of his thinning, light brown hair brushed back over his forehead: he was solidly built, broad-shouldered and somewhat bull-necked. He was a little above average height, his complexion was florid, his forehead high and intelligent, and nothing in his calm, confident appearance suggested ferocity or cunning. His hands were small, almost pretty in their whiteness: I had heard he was accustomed to wear wash-leather gloves to maintain their plump softness. Now he stood in the witness box and looked about the court: his glance fastened upon a red-haired young woman seated near the lawyer who was conducting the defence case. I understood later she was one Jane Widnall, with whom, among other ladies of loose morals, he had enjoyed a lengthy relationship. I continued to watch him with interest as he was sworn in. He spoke in a firm, distinct tone, his voice betrayed no hesitation or nervousness and I concluded he was a cool, controlled customer.