Trial of William Palmer

by Unknown

Serjeant Shee

Gentlemen, there are other facts to be adverted to before I sit down to which it is necessary your attention should be drawn. There was a great stir at the hotel at Rugeley after Mr. Jones had returned from London with Mr. Stevens, the executor. Mr. Stevens arrives at the inn with Mr. Jones, has been in conversation all the way down with Mr. Jones, and has heard from Mr. Jones all that Mr. Jones knows, and does not appear to have had anything communicated to him by Mr. Jones which could justify any suspicion on his part. Mr. Jones, when they arrive at Rugeley, introduces him to Palmer, and Palmer at once takes him up to the room of the dead man, and uncovers the body down to the thighs, and Mr. Stevens looks at the corpse and sees there are no convulsions about the body except the clenching of the hands. He sees there is no emaciation, no signs as he thinks of illness, and, wondering within himself, says, “How can you have died?” or something to that effect; “How grievous a thing it is that your young life should have passed away!” I think he said he did not look as if he were dead. After seeing the corpse they went down to dinner, and he asked Palmer to dine with him, and Jones, and Mr. Bradford, the husband of Mr. Cook’s sister. He has not been called; he could have told us if there was anything suspicious in the conduct of Palmer, anything that could justify such conduct on the part of Mr. Stevens. They have their dinner, and when their dinner is over, see what takes place. It is important you should know it, because I think you will see from the way it occurred that the conduct of Palmer was the conduct of a man certainly apprehensive of any sort of vexatious inquiry which might involve him in pecuniary troubles, and was therefore anxious to conciliate Mr. Stevens, still comporting himself like one who could firmly and freely maintain his equality with Mr. Stevens unabashed, with a clear brow and the appearance of an innocent man. (The learned serjeant read a portion of the dialogue which took place between Mr. Stevens and Palmer.) He said, “with a spasmodic convulsion of the throat,” which was perfectly apparent; he could not see his face, but there was a spasmodic convulsion of his throat. Who could believe such a testimony of guilt as that? He expects that Palmer is to be bound to look after everything of every kind that was in the hotel belonging to Cook, and because he could not find a trumpery book, which anybody might have taken away, thinking and probably having heard it was of very little use, which could not be of the slightest service in any way to Palmer for any purpose whatever, or to anybody, simply on that account, he is to indulge in this vexatious proceeding. The last time the book was seen was on the Monday. The last person who saw it was Elizabeth Mills, on the Monday, and on that day there were several people there with Cook—Saunders the trainer, and the jockeys; after his death the two servant-maids and the housekeeper, the three undertaker’s men, the two women who laid Cook out, and some other persons; the barber who shaved him might have taken the book, and having taken it could not return it; for here again is the effect of dishonesty as well as falsehood. Once done, you cannot repair it; without admitting it you cannot set it right again. I throw imputation on nobody; I simply say, that as many people had access to the room, it is not fair, it is not right under the circumstances when a man is charged in such a case of momentous importance without any assignable reason for his purloining the betting book, to fix it on him without any proof that he ever had it in his hands, when nothing like a proper search was made for it until some time after Cook’s death. I asked whether the drawers were not full of linen and clothes, the answer was that they were. It was not seen immediately after the death, nor was there any search made for it, nor was it set aside and taken care of in the room, so that it could not have been removed by Palmer with a guilty intention of purloining it. Let us go on for a moment with this dialogue—(the learned serjeant then read a passage from the dialogue as detailed in the evidence)—and at last, after goading and irritating the man for all this time, though Palmer was willing to make explanations and provoke inquiries into anything or circumstance which if inquired into would at once have led to a discussion of matters in a fair and gentleman-like manner, Stevens snubs him by asking him whether he intends to be at the post-mortem; and at last, when he says, “It is a matter of indifference to me,” goads the poor man into saying, “So it is to me.” That is the only word of irritation that Palmer—who kept his ground during the whole time and stood up to this man—that is the only word of irritation that he used. Mr. Stevens speaks to him in a very warm manner, yet Palmer manifests the composure of a gentleman, of a man of feeling and consideration to the father—as he called himself—but the stepfather of the young man, and that is to be turned into evidence of guilt.

There is another story made against him, that he was found searching in the pockets of Mr. Cook shortly after his death—it is the most absurd suggestion on their own showing. The facts were these. Mr. Jones, I think, told the servants to tell Palmer to come into the room. I think that was it—to tell Palmer to go into the room; and then I think Mr. Jones told another servant to follow him into the room. Elizabeth Mills is the witness to that. She says, “I went in, and I saw him looking about seeing if there was anything in one of the coats, and he also looked under the bolster of the bed, just as a gentleman might be looking for a watch; and he went on doing so after I got into the room.” It was quite clear she suspected nothing, and I submit it is not fair that any suspicion should attach to him on the subject.

Serjeant Shee

One other circumstance there is on which reliance has been placed; and although it has been said great reliance is not intended to be placed upon it, I cannot tell what effect it will produce on your minds. I am sure that when those who have promoted this prosecution first undertook it they intended to rely, as proof of damning guilt, on the manuscript extracts about strychnia in these medical books. I think it will be within your experience that in youth and early manhood the best protection that a man can have for his honour and integrity is the company and society of a wife whom he loves. If you find a man in early youth attached to a virtuous young woman, whom he loves with a sincere and heartfelt attachment, depend upon it he is of a gentle nature, and little prone to deeds of violence. They have put in these books to show that Palmer had a knowledge of strychnia poison, and they are the books which he used when a student attending lectures in London, as must have been known to his deceased wife. I find, in what I am in a condition to prove to be her own handwriting, proof positive that this was his student’s book, and that he then and long after loved that young woman in the way in which it is God’s will, under the sanction of His holy ordinance, young men should love their wives. His marriage was a marriage of affection; he loved her for herself and for her person; he loved her as ardently as he now loves her first-born, his only surviving child, a boy of seven years old, who waits with trembling anxiety for a sentence which will restore him to his father’s arms, or drive that father to an ignominious death upon the scaffold. He loved her with a pure, generous affection. There is proof positive in this letter, copied in her handwriting into his notebook, that such a man was William Palmer when only a few years younger than he is now—

“My dearest Annie,—I snatch a moment to write to your dear, dear little self. I need scarcely say the principal inducement I have to work is the desire of getting my studies finished, so as to be able to press your dear little form in my arms. With best, best love, believe me, dearest Annie, your own William.”

Now, this is not the sort of letter that is generally read in Courts of justice. It was no part of my instructions to read it to you, but that book was put in to prove that this man was a wicked, heartless, savage desperado, and I show you from it what he was when that letter was written—what his deceased wife knew him to be when she copied it—a young man who loved a young woman for her own sake—loved her with a pure and virtuous affection, such an affection as would in almost all natures be a sure antidote against guilt.

Such, gentlemen, is the man whom it is my duty to defend. Upon the evidence which is before you I cannot believe him guilty. Do not suppose for a moment that he is abandoned in this dreadful strait by his family and friends. An aged mother, who may have disapproved of some parts of his conduct, expects in an agony of grief your verdict. A dear sister can scarcely sustain herself under the suspense which presses upon her. A gallant and devoted brother stands by him to defend him, sparing neither time nor labour to save him from an awful doom. I call upon you to expand your minds to a capacity for estimating the high duty that you have to perform. You have to stem the torrent of prejudice; you have to vindicate the honour and character of your country; you have with firmness and courage to do your duty, and find a verdict for the Crown, if you believe that guilt is proved; but if you have a doubt upon the point, depend upon it the time will come when the innocence of this man will be made apparent, and when you will deeply regret any want of due and calm consideration of the case which it will be my duty to lay before you.

The Court then adjourned.