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Gilfeather’s next witness was the doctor whom Connal Murdoch had called, a rotund man with black hair and a fine black mustache.
“Dr. Ormorod,” he began smoothly, as soon as the doctor’s credentials had been thoroughly established, “you were called by Mr. Connal Murdoch to attend the deceased, Mrs. Mary Farraline, is that correct?”
“Yes sir, it is. At half past ten in the morning of October the seventh, of this year of our Lord,” the doctor replied.
“Did you respond immediately?”
“No sir. I was in attendance upon a child who was seriously ill with whooping cough. I had been informed that Mrs. Farraline was deceased. I saw no urgency.”
There was a nervous giggle in the gallery. One of the jurors, a large man with a mane of white hair, scowled at the offender.
“Was any reason given why you should be sent for, Dr. Ormorod?” Gilfeather asked. “It was a somewhat unusual request, was it not?”
“Not really, sir. I imagined at the time that my main duty would be to attend Mrs. Murdoch. The shock of bereavement can in itself be a cause for medical concern.”
“Yes … I see. And what did you find when you reached Mrs. Murdoch’s residence?”
“Mrs. Murdoch, poor soul, in a state of considerable distress, which was most natural, but the cause of it was not entirely what I had expected.” The doctor became increasingly sensible that he was the focus of all attention. He straightened up even farther and raised his chin, measuring his words like an actor delivering a great monologue. “She was, of course, deeply grieved by her mother’s passing, but she was also most troubled by the possible manner of it. She feared, sir, that in view of the missing jewels, it may not have been entirely of natural causes.”
“That is what she said to you?” Gilfeather demanded.
“Indeed sir, it is.”
“And what did you do, Dr. Ormorod?”
“Well, at first, I confess, I did not entirely believe her.” He pulled a face and glanced at the jury. One or two of them obviously sympathized with him. There were nodding heads. At least two thirds were middle-aged to elderly gentlemen of high repute, and were used to the vagaries of women, especially young women in a delicate condition.
“But what did you do, sir?” Gilfeather insisted.
Ormorod returned his attention to the matter. “I conducted an examination, sir, in some considerable detail.” Again he waited, for dramatic effect.
Gilfeather kept his composure.
Rathbone swore under his breath.
Argyll sighed silently, but his expression was easily readable.
Ormorod’s face tightened. This was not the reaction he had intended.
“It took me a long time,” he said tightly. “And I was obliged to conduct a full postmortem examination, most particularly the contents of the stomach of the deceased. But I concluded that there was no doubt whatsoever that Mrs. Farraline had met her death as a result of having been given a massive overdose of her usual medicine, a distillation of digitalis.”
“How massive a dose, sir? Can you say?”
“At least twice what any responsible practitioner would prescribe for her,” Ormorod answered.
“And you have no doubt of that?” Gilfeather persisted.
“None whatsoever. But you do not need to rest on my opinion alone, sir. The police surgeon will have told you the same.”
“Yes sir. We have the result of that to be read into evidence,” Gilfeather assured Mm. “And it confirms precisely what you say.”
Ormorod smiled and nodded.
“Did you form any opinion as to how it had been administered?”
“By mouth, sir.”
“Was any force used?”
