by Roy Lewis
Just how cool I was quickly to discover.
I went straight to the point. I handed him the bill of exchange which acknowledged the £2,000 loan.
‘Is the signature William Palmer as the drawer of this bill in your handwriting?’
He glanced at the document, then looked directly at me. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘And you applied to Mr Padstone to advance you money on this bill?’
His glance held mine steadily, unmoved. ‘I did.’
I smiled. We could immediately proceed to the heart of the matter. ‘The signatory to the bill is Sarah Palmer. But your mother, Mrs Sarah Palmer, has sworn she did not sign this bill. Did you forge her signature?’
‘I did not.’
He was lying, I knew. ‘So who did write Mrs Sarah Palmer’s acceptance on it?’
His eyes remained steady; there was no flicker, no hesitation, no hint of concern in his glance. There was a short pause until at last he replied.
‘Anne Palmer.’
A palpable hush settled over the room. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. I myself was momentarily stunned: the effrontery of the reply staggered me. I hesitated, then asked, ‘Anne Palmer. Who is she?’
Calmly, without emotion William Palmer replied, ‘She is now dead’
I struggled to breathe. ‘Do you mean, are you telling the court that it was your wife who signed … forged your mother’s signature?’
‘Yes,’ he said, holding my fierce glance with a studied lack of concern.
I bit my lip. The case was sliding away from me; if what the surgeon was stating was true, Padstone’s case would collapse in a heap. Manfully, I struggled with the only question left to me. ‘You say it was your wife’s doing.… Did you see her write the acceptance, in the name of Sarah Palmer?’
‘I did.’
There was no way in which he could be gainsaid. I heard the rustle begin in the courtroom behind me; people sat up, whispered, and a shudder of horror seemed to settle upon all who heard the cold, calculated, heartless tone of the man in the witness box. He had taken the money; he had probably forged the name himself; a straightforward confession of forgery and fraud would have saved his mother’s honour. Instead, he was blaming his wife, a woman who could not defend herself—subjecting her name to calumny and leaving Padstone without remedy. The moneylender was outmanoeuvred: he could not sue a dead woman for forgery, could not recover his £2,000.
I turned to look at him. He gaped at me, his florid features paling. I shrugged, then informed the court that I had no recourse other than to retire from the case. As the jury announced in favour of old Mrs Sarah Palmer my client grabbed me by the arm. ‘Just half an hour ago, before the trial, I bought two of the doctor’s horses at Tattersall’s. Near five hundred guineas it cost me! I swear, if I’d known how this case would go I’d never have bought hoof nor hair of that twister’s bloodstock!’
As he was escorted from the courtroom Palmer glanced back at me, over his shoulder. A slight smile played across his lips.
As I told the recently promoted Attorney General Alexander Cockburn next day, it was clear we were dealing with a cool, collected villain and rogue who would no doubt be able to twist and turn at every occasion. We would need not merely to be sure of our evidence and witnesses; we would have to anticipate just what defences William Palmer might concoct.
Cockburn was gloomy of countenance. ‘We have severe problems with our case as it stands. You’re right in your views: the evidence against Palmer—the hard evidence of fact—is slim. I believe you’ve had your man Gully rooting about in Stafford. Has he found anything we can use?’
I shook my head regretfully. ‘Rumours … plenty of them. But real facts, no. And there’s the matter of local feeling.’
‘It’s against Palmer?’
‘Hardly. It may be surprising, but scarcely any people in the locality believe in his guilt: they discount what they hear; they describe it as malicious gossip. They claim Palmer is a generous, kindly man, and one they respect. So the first of our problems is the raising of a jury … unbiased.’ I frowned. ‘The men and women we place in the jury box, if drawn from Stafford and Rugeley, will probably be strongly on Palmer’s side. There’s been too much talk—everyone knows what’s claimed, and many dispute it.’
‘So what do you suggest, James?’
‘Move the trial.’
And that’s how it came about—for the first time in history a criminal case was moved from the assize court in the area where the alleged crime was committed. The process began when I met Palmer’s solicitor Mr John Smith in my chambers, next day.
‘Honest John’ Smith of Birmingham was a man short of leg, wizened of features, with a pendulous lower lip that quivered when he spoke, but he had wide-spaced, sober eyes and an earnest expression. The sobriquet ‘Honest John’ was at variance with the general view the public holds of lawyers: honesty and law have never been regarded as natural bedfellows. Perhaps he had earned it by the straightforward manner of his speech.
He began by asking if I would lead for the defence of William Palmer! He half-closed his heavy-lidded eyes thoughtfully, and said, ‘I will be straight with you, sir. I have proffered my advice to Dr Palmer, stating quite firmly that the most suitable man in all England to speak on his behalf would be Mr Serjeant Wilkins, in view of the fact that he enjoyed a medical education before taking to the Law.’
My old friend Charlie Wilkins, former strolling player, circus act, itinerant preacher, and, for a while, a practising chemist. I nodded gravely, as Smith went on.
‘I confidently expect that Serjeant Wilkins would be able to handle the abstruse medical evidence that is expected to be produced by the prosecution better than any other.’ Smith paused, inspected his hands, locked together in his lap. He frowned. ‘But I fear that Dr Palmer has other views.’
I made no reply but held the solicitor’s glance and waited. John Smith shuffled a little uncomfortably in the chair. ‘Dr Palmer is well aware of your reputation in … ah … sensation cases. Moreover, it seems that when he faced you recently in the matter of the forged endorsements he was … ah … impressed.’
Impressed the wily Dr Palmer might have been, but I suspected it was because he had also heard other rumours concerning my own personal experiences in the matter of horse racing, ladies of easy virtue, bill discounting and debts.
I was silent for a little while, pretending to consider the matter. After a while I rose, locked my hands behind my back, strolled to the window and looked out towards the Temple Gardens. I did not have an uninterrupted view from my chambers: guttering and the edge of a roof obscured most of the view, though I was able to discern a leaden strip of the Thames and a few scrubby trees above the muddy flats that led down to the Temple landing. After a few minutes’ silence, I turned back to the expectant Birmingham solicitor.
‘I fear I must decline the brief. I have already been instructed by the Treasury and will represent the Crown, alongside the Attorney General. So I suggest you stick with Serjeant Wilkins. But your visit is opportune: I wanted to see you regarding other matters. I have caused certain inquiries to be made at Rugeley and Stafford.’
Smith’s wide-spaced eyes narrowed a little, but he waited in silence.
‘I won’t dwell upon Dr Palmer’s racing losses or the general state of his financial affairs,’ I went on smoothly, ‘but I would remark upon the noticeable number of deaths among people of his acquaintance, such as his unfortunate children, his mother-in-law, his wife, his brother … and there is, of course, the matter of his attempts to insure the lives of most of these adults with at least four separate assurance societies. This … ah … background has caused considerable comment in the local area.’
‘Common gossip can hardly be restrained in matters such as these,’ Smith averred tightly.
‘That is true,’ I admitted. ‘But it seems to me to raise a certain problem. The trial will be held at Stafford. From the information I have received, while
there are numerous acquaintances of Dr Palmer in Rugeley who will swear to his probity and offer strong support for his defence, the situation is somewhat different in Stafford. There, local feeling is strongly against the good doctor. The gossip swirls around readily; many believe already in the guilt of Dr Palmer on the basis of the old adage that there can be no smoke without fire, and there exists a great deal of, shall we say, prejudgment?’
‘The situation is indeed unfortunate,’ Smith admitted.
‘Particularly since the members of the jury will be drawn from the local area, if the trial is to be heard in Stafford.’
The silence that followed grew. I settled myself back in my chair, steepled my fingers, observed the Birmingham solicitor. At last, with furrowed brow, he sighed. ‘I agree, it is possible there will be difficulty with the selection of the jury. Many people are likely to be somewhat prejudiced.’
‘Which would suggest to me,’ I said carefully, ‘that Dr Palmer is unlikely to obtain a fair hearing at Stafford.’
John Smith sniffed, and scratched at his cheek. ‘There’s not much we can do about that. If we—’
I held up my hand, interrupting him. ‘The Crown wants a level playing field,’ I lied. ‘The concept of a fair trial is deeply entrenched in English Law. The Attorney General and I consider a case could and should be made for the removal of the hearing to a location other than Stafford. On the ground of avoidance of local prejudice.’
I did not mention the prejudice was largely against the Crown prosecution. John Smith stared at me for several long seconds. ‘There is no provision in English law—’
‘But perhaps there should be such provision.’
‘That would require an Act of Parliament.’ Smith snapped, but there was a light dawning in his eyes.
‘Just so.’
‘There would hardly be time, even if the Government could be persuaded—’
‘Justice should be blind,’ I murmured, ‘not prejudiced.’ I paused. ‘And I am assured the Attorney General—and the Government—would not be averse to such a petition.’
Smith took the bait. He was persuaded the prejudice would be against his client: next day, to our delight, he presented the petition, and we achieved our objective in getting a London, rather than a Stafford jury, for shortly after the interview Sir Alexander brought in a bill, which was hastily promulgated as law as Act of Parliament, 19 Vict.cap 16, to regularize the proceedings.
I had dinner with Lecky Cockburn at the Reform Club, while the draft Act lay before Parliament and informed him of my other anxieties. Over a glass of Madeira he observed me with a cynical glint in his eye. ‘So now we know all the rumours about this man Palmer.’
‘And I’ve confronted the man in court. He’s a smooth customer.’
‘I’ve gone over the brief thoroughly. It’s not one of our firmest and clearest cases. Too many holes. I think, James, we don’t have time tonight, for I have a political meeting to attend. But you and I need a conference of war. This Friday I intend going down to my yacht. Perhaps we could meet there?’
‘Or after a convivial evening at The Nunnery?’
Cockburn laughed. ‘It’s a while since I’ve attended a Cock and Hen occasion. Rusper it is then, and afterwards, on to The Zouave.’
I was relieved. I needed to give Cockburn my views regarding what the defence was likely to throw at us.
4
After the ladies had left The Nunnery that afternoon, a sated Cockburn and I settled down to a cigar, and I left a bottle of good brandy at his elbow. He helped himself, sniffed at his glass, gave a slight sigh of appreciation and sipped, holding his head back to allow the taste and aromas to linger on his tongue. Then he looked at me quizzically, and said, ‘The trap will be here in a half hour, to take us down to the yacht. Well, James? What do you think?’
We had already had discussions in his chambers on the case for the prosecution of Dr Palmer and we were of a mind. He would be the leader, of course, and as Attorney General, would undertake most of the advocacy. My task was to prepare the medical evidence, drill the seven eminent surgeons in their presentations, and try to outguess the defence in their strategies. We had worked hard at the brief and I had collated the evidence, interviewed the witnesses we expected to call. Now, I stretched out in my chair, brandy glass in one hand, a glowing cigar in the other. ‘The medical evidence will be critical, in the minds of the jury.’
‘Ah, yes. Led by Professor Taylor.’ Cockburn wrinkled his nose in dissatisfaction. ‘He worries me.’
‘Because of his view regarding the cause of death,’ I murmured.
‘Exactly that. First of all, after his post mortem examination, Professor Taylor was of the opinion, and has so deposed, that he was convinced Cook had been poisoned by a dose of antimony.’
I sniffed contemptuously. ‘The problem with that theory is that during the autopsy on John Parsons Cook only one small grain of antimony was found in the internal organs. Not enough to kill. Indeed, it seems most of us at some time or another carry a similar amount inside our gut without any ill effects.’
‘At which point,’ Cockburn grunted sourly, ‘our good professor gives us the opinion that Palmer could have poisoned Cook with strychnia, not antimony after all.’
‘And the problem with that,’ I murmured, ‘is that no post-mortem evidence of the ingestion of strychnia can be shown.’
Cockburn twisted uneasily in his chair. ‘Confound all damned medical men! Why can’t they be more precise? It’s all very well saying the symptoms attending the death of Cook are consistent with strychnine poisoning, but if they can’t find a trace of the stuff in the organs, where does that leave us?’
‘Dangling in mid-air,’ I remarked thoughtfully.
‘Where I’d like to see that damned rogue Palmer,’ Cockburn snapped viciously.
And I need to make a point here. I had no decided animus against Dr Palmer. But Cockburn, he was determined to get a conviction, I knew that. The fact was, Alexander Cockburn was always a vain man, and he liked to win. Moreover, as Attorney General he wanted to maintain his reputation; perhaps more importantly, he was due any day now to expect elevation to the bench, as Lord Chief Justice. The Palmer case was likely to be the last great cause célèbre that would fall to him before he became elevated to the bench and he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. And oddly enough, for all his personal interest in and ability at card-sharping and whoring and impregnating other men’s wives, there was a strangely Puritan streak in him. He disliked Palmer in a way I did not: he saw the Rugeley doctor as a rogue, a scamp, a fraudster, a horse-nobbler and a seducer. And he had convinced himself that Palmer was a murderer. I held a somewhat different view: I had met many Palmers in the bankruptcy courts and in fraud and bill-discounting cases. I had personal experience of the wriggling often necessary to fob off one creditor against another. So I had some brotherly feeling for Palmer. And I did not believe he was a killer. On the other hand, I had my professional duty.
‘Do you think Professor Taylor’s testimony will stand up in court?’ he asked abruptly.
I shrugged, sipped my brandy. ‘We’ve got three other eminent professors and three doctors to support him.’
‘And the defence have five professors and six doctors directly opposed and willing to affirm Cook died of natural causes. They claim it could have been syphilis or tetanus.’
‘It don’t come down to numbers,’ I said coolly, drawing on my cigar and sending a curl of smoke up the ceiling. I squinted at its coiling perfection before I added, ‘And we’ve got the evidence of Charles Newton.’
‘Which we’ll go over when we get down to Southampton Water,’ Cockburn grunted, stubbing out his cigar. ‘The trap is at the door.’
We remained silent as we rattled our way to the coast, each to our own thoughts. I suspect his mind was not distant from mine: we had enjoyed the favours of three ladies that afternoon, bored, complaisant and seeking illicit thrills. Cockburn and I were adept at providing the r
ight kind of table—and bed—for such appetites. As for a couple of days on The Zouave, that was not really to my taste. Unlike you, my boy, master mariner that you are, I do not have any trace of the sea in my blood. I knew that Cockburn would not be putting out from his moorings at that time of the year, but he liked to sit on the deck well muffled up against the breeze with a wide brimmed hat on his head to deflect the damp airs. He claimed the sea winds helped clear his head: they caused mine to seize up with migraine. But he was my leader, Attorney General, and in charge of proceedings.
My task was to predict what the defence might raise to foil us in our objective—to see Palmer hang—and find ways in preventing those defence arguments prevailing.
After a fitful night in my rocking cabin and a bracing breakfast on shore at a local inn, the Attorney General and I settled down on the deck of The Zouave, brandy and water in hand, and went over what we needed to look out for in the coming trial.
Cockburn sighed. ‘Ah, yes, you were saying, the chemist Charles Newton, the man who claims he sold grains of strychnia to Palmer on the night Cook died. Which Palmer then made up into pill form and gave to his unfortunate friend.’
‘In other words, the means to an end. Unfortunately, defence counsel will point out that there’s no record of the sale in Newton’s books,’ I murmured.
Cockburn nodded thoughtfully and squinted skywards where a winter sun was part obscured by drifting clouds. ‘Newton will swear that he did not record the sale because his employer, Dr Salt, had a long standing feud with Palmer, and had ordered that Newton should not serve Palmer with drugs. Newton didn’t want his master to know he had disobeyed him. No, I think we’ll be all right there. Newton’s evidence will stand up in court.’
‘There’s some evidence of bad feeling between Newton and Palmer,’ I countered.
‘I doubt we can contest that. But Newton is likely to be a solid witness: he won’t be moved. So, I think we can assume the means for murder were supplied to Palmer. Newton will swear he provided Palmer with the means to kill Cook—’