Crabb, but that they would not be served without further direction; he therefore strongly urged Palmer to raise the money, and also to visit him in London and make an arrangement regarding a bill for one thousand five hundred pounds, which would fall due in three days' time. On the 10th of November, the day to which Pratt had said he would delay the service of the writs, Palmer visited London and paid Mr Pratt a sum of three hundred pounds which, with two sums of two hundred and fifty pounds, already paid, made up a total of eight hundred pounds. Mr Pratt deducted two hundred pounds from this, for two months' discount, thus leaving six hundred pounds to the credit of the two-thousand-pound bill falling due on the 25th of October. On the 13th of November, which is a very important day, for it is the one on which Polestar won at Shrewsbury, Mr Pratt writes a letter referring to The Prince of Wales policy, and saying that steps will be taken to enforce its payment by the company.
That, gentlemen, was the state of things in which Palmer was placed on the 13th of November. You will find from this correspondence that Mr Pratt, the agent through whom this bill had been discounted, held at that time twelve thousand five hundred pounds of bills in his hands, minus the six hundred pounds which had been paid off on this, the whole of which bore the forged acceptances of Palmer's mother: acceptances either forged by him or by someone at his desire, and for which, in consequence, Palmer was criminally responsible. You will also find that since The Prince of Wales' Office declined to pay the sum for which Walter Palmer's life had been insured, namely thirteen thousand pounds, Mr Pratt, who held that policy as a collateral security, would not have been justified in furdier renewing these bills. He had therefore issued writs against the mother, which were forthwith to be served in case Palmer could not, at all events, discharge part of his debt.
Now we come to the races at Shrewsbury. Mr Cook was the owner, as you are aware, of a mare called Polestar, which he had entered for the Shrewsbury Handicap. She was very advantageously weighted. The race was run on the 13 th of November, the very day on which Mr Pratt's last letter was written, which would reach Palmer on the next day, the 14th. Polestar won the race. Cook was entitled in the first place to the stakes, which amounted to ?424, subject to certain deductions, leaving a net sum of ?381 19s. to Cook's credit. He had also betted large sums upon the race, partly for himself and, I am told, partly on commission. As a result, his betting-book showed a winning which amounted, together with the stakes, to two thousand and fifty pounds. Cook had also spent the previous week at the Worcester Races, and by the end of the Shrewsbury Meeting had a sum of seven or eight hundred pounds in his pocket, mainly from bets paid there on the course. Other bets, which he was entitled to be paid at Tattersall's, on the ensuing Monday, amounted, as we shall afterwards find, to one thousand and twenty pounds. He would receive the stakes through Messrs Weatherby, the great racing agents in London, with whom he kept an account, as many betting men do.
Now, within a week of that time, Mr Cook died, and the important inquiry of today is how he met his death; whether by natural means, or whether by the hand of man; and, if the latter, by whose hand?
DEATH AT THE TALBOT ARMS
THE evidence elicited at the Coroner's inquest on John Parsons Cook, who died at The Talbot Arms Hotel, Rugeley, on November 20th, 1855, exactly a week after Polestar's capture of the Shrewsbury Handicap, has now been supplemented by further evidence elicited at Dr Palmer's trial for murder—some of it, however, plainly irreconcilable with the original depositions made by the same witnesses.
Dr Palmer, it appears, owned so little ready cash on the opening day of the Shrewsbury Meeting, that he borrowed twenty-five pounds for the trip from a Rugeley butcher. He later claimed to have put himself in funds by borrowing another hundred and fifty on the racecourse and laying it on Polestar at seven to one; yet, in fact, he made no cash profit at all, only winning back two hundred and ten pounds from a Mr Butler to whom he had owed seven hundred since the Liverpool Meeting. As soon as the race had been run, Dr Palmer took train back to Rugeley, where he found two letters waiting for him at his house. There was the one from Pratt (mentioned by the Attorney-General), threatening legal proceedings against his mother, if he would not at once pay the fourteen hundred pounds now due and covered by her acceptance. The other came from a Stafford girl named Jane Bergen, whom he had got with child during Eliza Tharm's pregnancy, and for whom he had procured an abortion. She possessed thirty-four love-letters written by him in most lascivious language, and threatened that she would show them to her father unless he paid fifty pounds for their return. At first, she had priced the collection at one hundred pounds—a sum which, he told her, far exceeded their worth.
Elated by Polestar's victory, Cook asked a few of his friends to celebrate it with him by dining at The Raven Hotel, Shrewsbury; where two or three bottles of champagne were consumed. This was Tuesday, November 13 th. He retired to bed in good health and spirits, not having drunk much; and the next day rose cheerfully and visited the course again. There he found Dr Palmer come back from Rugeley and reproached him for not having attended the Polestar dinner. That night, Wednesday, November 14th, at about eleven o'clock, one Mr Ishmael Fisher, a wine merchant of Victoria Street, Holborn—but also a betting-agent who usually collected Cook's winnings, or paid his losses, each settling day at Tattersall's—decided to call on him. Fisher was also lodging at The Raven. When he entered the sitting-room which Cook and Dr Palmer shared, he found the two of them seated at table over brandy and water, in the company of George Myatt and Samuel Cheshire.
Cook invited Fisher to join the party, and then turned to ask Dr Palmer: 'Will you take another glass?'
The Doctor replied: 'Not until you down yours. You must play fair, old cock—drink for drink, and no heel- taps.'
'Oh, that's soon done,' cried Cook, and seizing the tumbler, half full of strong brandy and water, which stood on the table before him, tossed it off at a gulp, leaving perhaps a teaspoonful at the bottom of the glass.
A minute later, he complained that the grog tasted queer, and looked accusingly at Dr Palmer.
The Doctor reached for Cook's tumbler, sipped the little liquor remaining, rolled it around his tongue, and exclaimed: 'Come, what's the game, Johnny? There's no taste but brandy here.'
Cook then made some remark, about how dreadfully his throat had been burned, which was interrupted by a second knock on the door. Another wine merchant, named Read, whose tavern near Farringdon Market is a favourite haunt of many sporting men, entered to congratulate Cook on his success. Dr Palmer, pushing the glass towards Read and Fisher, said: 'Cook fancies that there's something in this brandy and water. Taste it! I've just done so myself.'
Read laughed and answered: 'It's easy enough to say 'Taste it!', but you've swigged the lot between you. Fetch me more of the same brew, and I'll give you my professional verdict.'
'Well, at least smell it,' the Doctor urged him. Read smelt Cook's glass, and could detect no odour but that of spirits. A new decanter of the same brandy was now sent for, and Cook mixed the grog with water poured from the same jug as before. All the guests rose to toast Polestar, a buzz of jovial talk ensued, and Cook's suspicions were forgotten.
Ten minutes later, Cook retired to his bedroom, and presently came back, looking very pale. He told Fisher, who was sprawled on the sofa, that he wished to make a request of him.
Fisher led Cook to his own sitting-room. 'What ails you, friend Johnny?' he asked.
'I've been as sick as a cat,' Cook answered. 'I do believe that damned Palmer dosed my grog, for a lark. Fisher, pray take care of these banknotes, like a good fellow. I trust nobody but you in this Cave of Forty Thieves; and Billy Palmer least of the lot.' He handed over a bulky packet, tied with tape, and sealed. Then he muttered: 'Excuse me, my dear Sir, I must vomit again,' and stumbled off.
On his way along the corridor, he passed a law-stationer by the name of Jones, also lodging at The Raven. Jones remarked to Fisher, who had followed Cook: 'He's got this sickness too, that's knocking people down like ninepins. They all act as though they were poisoned.'
'He thinks he
Cook then lurched into Fisher's sitting-room. 'I swear that damned Billy Palmer has dosed me!' he repeated; but before he could substantiate the remark, out he had to run again.
Fisher and Jones followed him into his bedroom, where he was vomiting violently into a wash-hand basin. 'Let me send for a doctor,' offered Fisher.
'Pray do so at once,' Cook groaned.
A certain Dr Gibson arrived at half an hour past midnight. Cook complained of pains in his stomach and heat in his throat, repeating constantly: 'I think I have been poisoned.'
Dr Gibson recommended an emetic, but Cook said: 'No, there's no need of anything from a chemist's shop. I can make myself sick on warm water. I often do.'
