How do you do? This is Clive Brook. Of all murderers, perhaps the poisoner is the cleverest and the most difficult to catch. There is something peculiarly horrible about a man or woman who uses poison. Theirs is a premeditated crime, and once caught, they have little hope of reprieve. The story I'm going to tell you today concerns a man respected and liked in the community in which he lived. An officer, he served in the First World War, a clerk to the local justices of the peace, and apparently in every respect, a man of integrity and a worthy citizen. November 1921. A confidential letter has been received at the home office from Dr. Tom Hinks, who practices in the little market town of Hay on the border of Wales. I am only writing this letter after the most severe conflict in my own mind. To cast suspicion on a fellow human as I fear a terrible thing to do, particularly when he is a well-liked friend. And yet I must do my duty and I have no alternative. In February of this year, Mrs. Catherine Mary Armstrong, who had been an invalid for some time, died. The patient was under my care and I had given her my constant attendance. Mrs. Armstrong had suffered from delusions and actually been certified as insane. It was about a month after her return from the asylum when she died. Throughout her illness, her husband, Major Herbert Rouse Armstrong, solicitor and clerk to the local justices, had been most attentive. I certified that the death of Mrs. Armstrong was from natural causes. I had no reason to think otherwise. And then some three weeks ago, I had a visit from Mr. Norman Martin, who is also a solicitor and practices in this same town. When he came to me, he was in a most agitated state. Dr. Hinks, it's no use. I've got to tell you, Major Armstrong is trying to poison me. What? Don't be a silly man. I tell you that's the truth. I couldn't believe it myself at first. But why? Why? Well, for some time he's been holding the sum of 500 pounds. It was an advance on a property deal. I've been acting for the purchases and I can't get either the money out of Armstrong or get him to complete the deal. There's nothing personal about it. I thought I was a friend of Armstrong's, but this matter is getting rather serious. But not for him to poison you. It's ridiculous. Listen, I haven't finished. A few weeks ago, a parcel was delivered to our house. It contained a box of chocolates. There was no note inside as to who it came from. And I put the chocolates away until the following week. Some friends came for dinner. A woman who ate one of the chocolates was taken violently ill. Yes. Is that all? It certainly isn't. Armstrong has always been asking me to go and have tea with him. In the end, I agreed. It was last week I went. He offered me a scone. He picked one particular scone out to give to me. Then when I got home, I was seized with agonising pains, just the same way as the guest of mine who had eaten the poisoned chocolates. I'd been poisoned. I'm sure of it. He keeps asking me to go back there for tea again. He's trying to murder me. That was the story told in Dr Hinks's letter to the Home Office. The doctor had taken an analysis following Martin's illness and it pointed to arsenical poisoning. Dr Hinks had come to the conclusion that the symptoms which had puzzled him in the case of Mrs Armstrong's fatal illness must have been caused by a similar but much more deadly dose of arsenic. The matter was passed over to the Scotland Yard and Chief Inspector Crutchett, together with Detective Sergeant Sharp, were instructed to take up the inquiry. One thing's certain, Sharp. If Major Armstrong gets wind that we're after him, he'll take every precaution. He must be our cool customer, sir. Yes, and we don't even know that there's any truth in Dr Hinks's suspicions. I've decided we'll go down to Hereford and make that our base. We'll pose as a couple of tourists on a walking tour. We won't go near the town of Hay, except at night, and then we'll have to have a talk with Dr Hinks and Mr Martin and see how much basis there is in their suspicions. Inspector Crutchett, I got your message. I did as you asked. I had Mr Martin come round here to meet you. Thank you, Dr Hinks. This is Detective Sergeant Sharp. Good evening. Good evening, Dr Hinks. And this is Mr Martin. How do you do, Inspector Crutchett? Well, Mr Martin, before we begin to ask you a few questions, I'd be grateful, Dr Hinks, if you could tell me a little more about Major Armstrong. How long has he lived in the district? Over 25 years. Married in 1907, you know, and bought Mayfield. That's one of the largest houses in the district. Any family? Oh, yes. Three children. And he's popular in the district. Extremely so. He's a very well-educated man, a master of arts, Cambridge, and as I expect you know, he's the clerk to the local justices. Yes. Dr Hinks mentioned that in his letter. What sort of fellow was he to look at? Quite small. I shouldn't say he weighs more than seven stone, but he did very well during the war. You mean he saw active service? Well, no. I meant rather that he did well from a promotion point of view. Oh. Yes, he was in the Territorial Army before the war, and to tell you the truth, I'd rather think he enjoyed his service life. He was always talking about it anyway. He wears his Army top boots and riding breeches on every possible occasion on his British war. Yes, I think Major Armstrong liked the Army. It must have been a change. Why? Isn't he very happy at home? Well, I don't like saying it, but I think he's been a lot happier since the death of Mrs Armstrong. You see, she was a woman of strong and peculiar character. She was religious and I must say a little eccentric. Oh, that's putting it mildly. She used to lead Armstrong an awful life. She wouldn't have any liquor in the house, and if he wanted to have a smoke, he had to go out into the garden. Funny thing was that meeting Armstrong away from his home, you'd have thought he was the master, but you only had to pay a visit to Mayfield to know that it was Mrs Armstrong who cracked the whip. But she was an invalid. Oh, yes, yes. As I told you, she had been certified as insane, though at times she was quite normal. When she came back from the asylum, Major Armstrong engaged two nurses and looked after her in every possible way. When she died, was he very upset? Yes, yes, apparently so. He's been very devoted to her memory. Every Sunday since the funeral, he's visited his wife's grave and he reads the lessons and the morning service in the village church. Ah. Now, Mr. Martin, I'd like to hear your story. This box of chocolates, did you keep any of them? Yes, I brought them along with me. Here you are. I will send these back for analysis. Take care of them, sir. Very good, sir. Of course, you've no proof that these came from Major Armstrong. No, but then there was the other occasion when I went to tea. What did you have to eat or drink? Just a cup of tea. Who bought it out? Uh, Major Armstrong. And he offered me a scone. Did you pick it out yourself? No. He selected it for me off the cake stand and gave it to me with remark, excuse, fingers. When I reached home, I was in absolute agony. The rest, you know. Have you seen Major Armstrong since? Yes. I met him the other day in the high street. He called out. Norman? Norman, I say Norman! Oh, hello, Armstrong. Oh, haven't seen you for days. How are you keeping? I'm all right. Funny, funny. I heard you weren't very well. Must have eaten something, eh? Yes. I had rather a bad attack. It was after I'd had tea with you. Oh, too bad, too bad. You know, you don't look very well. It may seem rather a strange thing to say, but I can't help feeling that you look as though you'll have another attack quite soon. Oh, too bad, too bad. You must take care of yourself. Good morning, my boy. Bye-bye. Oh, good morning. And he said that to you? Yes. And since then, he's rung me up once or twice. He wants me to come and have tea again. What am I going to do? My advice to you, Mr. Martin, is to do nothing. The several days Inspector Crutchett continued his inquiries, only visiting Hay at night-time, and taking the greatest care that no word of his presence should reach Major Armstrong. And then, one morning, he suddenly appeared at Armstrong's office. The Major was seated at his desk. Crutchett knocked at the door and walked into the room. Major Armstrong? Yes? Who are you? Chief Inspector Crutchett of Scotland Yard. I have here, Major Armstrong, a warrant for your arrest on the charge of the attempted murder of Mr. Norman Martin. But this is ridiculous. You walk into my office unannounced. I'm very sorry, Major Armstrong, but we've our reasons. I must ask you to come along with me to the police station. Oh, ridiculous. Nevertheless, you will have to come with us. I have to ask you to hand over to me, Major Armstrong, any papers you have in your pockets, anything of that kind. Oh, very well. If you'll just place them on the desk in front of you, Sharp here will make them up into a parcel, and we can bring them along to the station with us. Yes, sir. Are these your personal files over here, Major Armstrong? No, they are there to do with my business. But some of them are marked personal. All right, bring them along if you want to. I don't mind what you do. One minute, Major Armstrong. Would you mind putting down that envelope that you've just removed from the desk? What envelope? You put it in your left-hand pocket just now. Very well. Here it is. The package contained a white powder, three and three-quarter grains of arsenic, more than enough for a fatal dose. The day after Armstrong's arrest, the body of Mrs. Armstrong was examined, and Dr. Spillsbury, the home office pathologist, came down from London to make the post-mortem examination. The coffin was carried into the parlour of a little cottage opposite the churchyard, and there on a plain wooden table, Dr. Spillsbury conducted his examination. His report was passed to the county analyst for further action. I have analysed the samples given to me by Dr. Spillsbury, and I find that they contained over three and a quarter grains of arsenic. This is the greatest amount of this particular poison that I have ever found in any human body. Armstrong was charged with poisoning his wife, and was brought up in the precourt where he had sat for years as clerk to the justices. The situation was without parallel in the records of English justice. A lawyer charged with murder in the court where he had assisted to uphold the law. Armstrong's place as clerk of the court was taken by a very elderly colleague, an octogenarian from a neighbouring village. The trial opened before Mr. Justice Darling at the Shire Hall, Hereford, on April 3, 1922. Snow was falling heavily when the prisoner was brought up from the cells. Armstrong was a curious little figure in the oversized dock. He was dwarfed by the burly prison warders who towered on each side of him, yet there was something in his bearing which saved him from appearing insignificant. Armstrong had reserved his defence at the police court, but what that defence would be no one apart from his legal advisers could imagine. The Crown had accumulated a massive weight of evidence against him, and so, confident and cheerful, the gallant major put forward his defence. It was that Mrs. Armstrong had committed suicide. Armstrong was in a position to prove that his wife had actually threatened to destroy herself. There was also the fact that she'd been certified insane. How could it be said in the circumstances that suicide was out of the question? However, Dr. Spillsbury, the pathologist, had an answer to this. The evidence of the onset of the symptoms suggests that a dose of arsenic had been administered to the deceased some nine days before she died. However, I am confident from my examination that the action of the poison had been going on for days before death. Mrs. Armstrong might have taken one dose of arsenic to commit suicide, but I should consider it most improbable that she would have given herself repeated doses of the poison after experiencing its agonising effect. Armstrong gave evidence in his own defence. His explanation of how he happened to have a packet containing a fatal dose of arsenic in his pocket was more ingenious than convincing. I had set aside an ounce of white arsenic before an experiment in killing dandelions. I had made up the arsenic into twenty little packets, which I had put into the pocket of my gardening coat. Then I went into the garden, drilled a hole in the ground wherever a dandelion was growing, and emptied the contents of one of the packets of arsenic into the hole. I was arrested on a Saturday morning when I was wearing the gardening jacket at the office. I thought I'd used all the twenty packets of arsenic to kill the dandelions, but I'm afraid I must have overlooked the packet the police found in my pocket. Armstrong was in the witness box for hours, and he survived cross-examination surprisingly well. He was about to return to the dock, still with some faint hope of acquittal, when the gentle voice of the judge called him back. Major Armstrong, why did you go to the trouble of making up twenty little packets of arsenic, one for each dandelion, instead of taking the one ounce packet out into the garden with you and giving each of the dandelions a little from that? I really don't know, my lord. Why make up twenty little packets, each a fatal dose to a human being, and put them in your pocket? At the time, it seemed the most convenient way of doing it. I can't give any other explanation. Thank you, Major Armstrong. That will be all. The judge completed his summing up, and the jury of twelve good men and true filed out to consider their verdict. Twenty minutes later, they returned and took their places in the jury box, and the clerk of the court called for silence. Silence in court! Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty of the willful murder of Catherine Mary Armstrong? Guilty. Armstrong was a gentleman by education. He was a popular little fellow who had won the affection of his friends and neighbours, and yet there he stood at the bow of judgement, convicted of slowly poisoning the wife who had loved and trusted him. Armstrong had held a commission in the army and had been proud of the uniform he had dishonoured. When he was asked whether he had anything to say, why he should not be given the judgement to die, he squared his shoulders, took one pace forward like a soldier on a parade ground, and stood upright and rigid. Nothing, he said, in a crisp voice. He heard his sentence, then made a parade ground right turn, brought his heels together with a click, and marched off left foot first, looking straight ahead to the steps leading to the cells. No object would have been served by charging Armstrong with more than one murder, but if it had been necessary, it's probable that proof could have been obtained that he poisoned at least three other people before he murdered his wife. His murders were cowardly, and yet he died like a brave man. He was executed at Luster Prison, and those who were with him to the end had to admire his calm fortitude.
