 This is Orson Welles speaking from London, the Black Museum. Here, in the grim stone structure on the Thames, which houses Scotland Yard, is a warehouse of homicide. A warehouse where everyday objects, a woman's necklace, a pair of spectacles, an iron ladle, all are touched by murder. These small white boxes are familiar objects. They might have contained sleeping pills or a mild sedative or just aspirin. But no, they contained arsenic. Comparatively tasteless, isn't it, Inspector? Yes, sir. The mud that are coated on that, obviously. Nasty way to die. And the boxes, they look so well innocent. Today, those white boxes can be seen in a place of special honor in the Black Museum. From the annals of the criminal investigation department of the London police, we bring you the dramatic stories of the crimes recorded by the objects in Scotland Yard's gallery of death. The Black Museum. In just a moment, you will hear the Black Museum starring Orson Welles. The evidence of man's rages of woman's cruelty lies waiting just beneath the veneer of civilization. Waiting to kill. Here lies death. Here death seems deliberate, murder almost moderate. Here, in the echoing quiet, one is suspected to emit an orgy of violence. Expressed so calmly by ordinary objects, the filing spike is created for the piercing of papers, you know, to maintain orderliness on a clerk's desk, not for the purpose to which this spike was put. The piercing of the neck, the base of the skull, where the brain conjoins with the spinal column. Yeah, here we are. The white boxes, a little bit yellowed with age. A neat spidery penmanship on the tiny labels fading now. But still legible. Curry's Pharmacy, Glasgow, Scotland, they say. And the date? January 1857. They were certain they had a case. A prosecutor for the crown. A procurator of fiscal, they call it. A quiet man in charge of homicide. Inspector Webster. The prosecutor was quite definite about it. We don't have no trouble at all. It'll be a hanging. There seems to be plenty of evidence. You sound doubtful, Inspector. Jury's can be emotional, you know. When that happens, the evidence goes out of the window. Jury's haven't changed much. Almost a hundred years, have they? But rather, in the old tradition, let the guilty go free occasionally than have one innocent perish. They presented their case in proper order, each fact, large or small, in sequence, was paraded before the twelve good Scotsmen who sat in the jury box there in Glasgow almost a hundred years ago. Firstly with the landlady, Aimele Dongeret's landlady. She told her that summer evening in 1856. Well, Mr. Dongeret, you're at least up this evening. A very lovely reason. You like my waistcoat, madam. Quite striking. I trust it will. Do just that, madam. How do you do it? Dress the fashionable on your salary, Mr. Dongeret. That is something I have learned from the frugal Scots, madam. I have indeed. You will excuse me. I must catch the steamer to Rowelline and the garden by moonlight. A happy little man. That summer's evening. Aimele Dongeret. A happy strutting little man with his coat, his well-pressed jacket, his smart hat. On the way to the Quay to board the side wheel steamer met his friend Robert Dougal. Mr. Dougal was a witness too. His story was just as simple. Aimele, how are you? As if I needed to ask. You are the sports assistant. Thank you for that. You look well yourself. Don't tell me if you don't want to, but I'll wager you have a rendezvous. I do. And you know, you introduced us? With Madeleine? Madeleine Smith? No other, my friend. But the Smiths of Rowelline. Then you met the family? Not yet Robert, but very soon. Tonight? Just Madeleine. How long after tonight shall I have to wait for the family to accept me? How long, little man? How long indeed? That was a good part of the problem. Robert Dougal was temporarily excused from the witness box. The next witness was... a letter. A letter which tried to recapture on paper the wonder of a summer night of young love. Oh, my darling. Madeleine, my love. Shh, whisper, sweet. They are not asleep yet. What can I whisper when my heart wishes to shunt from the house? Don't tell me you're sweet. My darling, is this not a night for lovers? My darling, there is a quiet place I know where the moon will be reflected in the water and no one will be near. Don't let the date bang, darling. We don't want my father finding us now. A garden gate shuts softly and footsteps. A man and a woman fade away into the sounds of the night. It would be nice if we could leave the story here. But we can't. Nor could the prosecutor. There are more letters, many, many more, written by both young people. Letters which detail the progress of the summer and of the love affair. Madeleine, your curtain will coincide with the opening of a social season. You will go to all the dances, all the parties that without me at your side, I cannot stand the picture that is even to myself. Madeleine, let me be your husband in truth. Have faith in me. Have I not proven my love? Oh, Emil, the tears which bathe this paper, they are tears of longing. Longing to be with you. It all seemed endless, eternal. I could love these two pledged each other. But August moved into September and September into the fall. Present as the prosecutor didn't fail to point out the social rounds swept over Grasco and over the Smith family, of course. Madeleine was caught in a whirl with her family. Here, Robert Dugo was recalled to the witness box. This part of his evidence, if evidence it was, held a touch of wistfulness. The path was even. Do you think this is the proper place to stand, Robert? Not proper, but correct for our purpose. They'll have to pass this way. There's quite a crowd, is there not? The public dances of the Glasgow season are always crowded. They say more matches are made at these events. Do not say that, my friend. This is my great fear that she will meet someone. But she loves you. What am I? A tensioning backing clock? I am nothing. Our family do not even know I exist. Where are they? Has something happened? He stood there on the stairway leading to the ballroom waiting so impatiently. The little man of a fancy waistcoat that he switched with so much crime and so much love. And then at long last we saw her light on her father's arm from the carriage. Start of the stairway. She is... She's a princess. Is she not, Robert? She's a very pretty girl. But then I'm not in love with her. I will speak to her. No, you mustn't. Not here. But then, Miss Smith, no, it would be unforgettable. Don't embarrass her like this. She passed within arm's length and seemed not to notice him, standing there waiting so eagerly for the acknowledgement which never came. Shortly afterwards, the two young men went into the ballroom themselves. Emile saw his madrin whirling in the walls. Heard her laughter. It's Emile's death. My father would please him. This is what I had nightmares over. Patience, Emile. Patience! That is what she says. Patience, Emile. Patience! She's going into the conservatory. Quick, Emile. Do I dare? What didn't you see? She looked at you, pointed with her fan. Wait for me, Robert. With pleasure, my friend. Behind Arbor. Madeline, oh my dear. You shouldn't have come. Yet I'm glad you're here. If I could have only but one dance with you. Impossible, darling. My father noticed you on the steps. I told him it was Robert who spoke my name. Don't think he believes me. Let him know me. I am not ashamed of what I do. I will not be a clerk forever. Not now. Not tonight. I must be quick. They will be missing me. Darling, tomorrow night. Come to the house. You'll know my window on the ground floor with the rain. We will talk about it then. Tomorrow, after the family is asleep. The ground floor window. Or the cat bars. To keep out cats. Or was it young lovers? A very decorative grill. There was an area entrance. According to the letters offered clearly in evidence. A meal was omitted. Via the area entrance. To the gracious old house in Grasko. Madeline. Oh, Madeline. Quickly, darling. In here. My sitting room. Here we are. We must be very quiet. My elder sister is just about. And my father sleeps very lightly. Madeline, when? When? I must await the proper moment. And in the meantime, must I come to the area entrance in the dark of night. Sneaking like a thief. I did not steal your love. You gave it, darling. You gave it. What I gave, I can take back. No. You cannot. Of course not, dear. And we must not quarrel, either. Our summer was too lovely for us to spoil it now. I have made some tea, my dear. It must be cold outside. Shall we have tea together and pretend we are the happy married couple we want to be? Of course, darling. Of course, whatever you say. Only letters... It was a domestic scene. How the letters reveled in it. Charming, delightful. Two young people pretending marriage and stayed middle age. And then in new course the prosecutor introduced Mr. Curry, owner and chief dispenser at Curry's Glasgow Pharmacy. Yes, the defendant. It was the defendant there in the prisoner's box who bought the arsenic from me. I was told it was for the destruction of weeds and rats. The destruction of weeds and rats. Well, be that as it may. Today there was little white boxes and they found in the black museum. In just a moment we will continue with the black museum starring Orson Welle. starring Orson Welle. Colour, they say. In China, white is the colour of morning. Perhaps white was the right colour for the little boxes in the black museum. The evidence continued. I was the stallid honest police constable. He had a simple sad little tale to tell. It began with a sound such as children make when they pray with sticks on an iron ring. But this was not a child. This was a lover. Calling to his love. Well, the onlookers were policemen. For heaven's sake. Who wakes the family? I had to see you, darling. I had to. I told you, Emil, I could not see you tonight. What? Was he here again? You know who I mean. Let me knock. Since you mentioned it, yes, he was. So you could not see me? We must be discreet, darling. It's perfect camouflage. Father likes Mr. Miller. As long as father thinks I pay attention to Mr. Miller, he will not suspect that I am in love with anyone else. Are you in love with me, Madeline? Emil, how can you ask that? Forgive me. Forgive me, my darling. At the time I do not know what I am doing or saying. Here it is November. The summer seems a far away. Yes, the summer. Emil, go home. I cannot let you in tonight. Madeline, do stand here. Talking through bar. You'll catch your death of cold. Glass go in November. Dample must be turned. Oh, please go home, Emil. Where you'll be warm and safe. Aren't you standing here? No, not until I have held you in my arms once more. Emil, stop it. It's so late, so cold. Yes, cold. And almost bitter. Good night, Emil. Madeline! Madeline! You can't! You must! Madeline! I'll find a way. We will go off to South America. We will get away. Madeline, listen to me. We are here to watch all this. It's nothing, Constable. This is neither time to be rattling windy-greets. It's much too cold for serenading, you know. You do not understand. Oh, don't I? I was young myself and not so long ago. Now, on your way, young fellow. Mr. Smith is a good friend of mine. I'll know how lovesick boy is disturbing his daughters this time of night. Up with you now. Get on your hoose. Understand, little man? Can you to move along? Yes, Constable. I understand. Did Emil largely understand that this was the beginning of the end? That the summer was over and forever? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Perhaps he wouldn't let himself understand. However, this is all conjecture. The prosecutor was concerned with facts in their proper order. And so his next piece of evidence was a letter. In view of what appears to be the termination of our affair of the heart, will you be gentleman enough to return my letters to me at once, together with my portrait? I flatter myself, you have not destroyed either my picture or the missives I sent through while we felt more tenderly towards each other. There was no answer. I had to try another approach. Once we meant something to each other, I trust those moments are not unhappy memories. If they are happy at all, will you honour their memory by returning my letters and the miniature I gave you? Still, no answer. Emil brooded in his room, on his job. And then suddenly there was a change. The prosecutor brought this to the attention of the jury by recalling Emil's landlady to the witness box. She told an interesting story. Well, Mr. Don Gelby, you haven't stopped at my dear glass in a long time. I have had no reason to untill tonight. Oh, a lady? Yes, a lady. With a warm heart and your smile? With a warmer heart than she has shown in some time. I see. You're a faithful person, aren't you? I have always hoped I could be. You're not looking very well. I expect to see you improving health, Mr. Don Gelby, as you improve the problems of your heart. Thank you, madame. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. If you will excuse me, I must not be late tonight. I must not be late tonight, he said. He asked tonight of all nights. He must not be late. John really went to Packingford, left the house where he lived in his furnished room. There was no record, no witness, the prosecutor admitted of what went on that night between the jaunty Emil and the beautiful Madeline. But the landlady had more to say. And what she had to add was a tale which was neither a jaunty nor beautiful. Mr. Don Gelby, are you ill? What's wrong? Do you want a doctor? Can I help you? Mr. Don Gelby? Mr. Don Gelby, what is it? You look as if you've crawled home in your hands and knees. Call a doctor. A good woman hurried up the street, around the doctor whose surgery was in the corner, and together they hurried back and up the stairs to the little man's shabby room. What is it, man? Where's your pain? Alone. I want to die. Good heavens. Mr. Don Gelby? He will die unless you help me yourself. Madam, have you any must-ups in the house? Must-ups that they were for? Anomatic. This man has been poisoned. Quickly now. Oh, yes, yes, of course. I must have some somewhere. They did their best, the doctor and the landlady. But their best was to know of you. He's gone. The bad end, my guess, is arsenic. It'll take an autopsy to find out for certain. However, now it's the turn of the police. The police and the person of Inspector Webster gave testimony at the trial. Inspector, tell the jury what the medical stated. Death caused by a large quantity of arsenic taken by mouth, probably in teeth. And what did you find in a small wooden chest in the victim's room, Inspector? A packet of letters in perfect chronological order from the prisoner to the deceased. Thank you, Inspector. Any more? Did you arrest the prisoner? I did. Did you warn her that anything she might say could be used in evidence against her? I did. And what did she say? Too bad. He was a nice little man. If he hadn't been so persistent, I might have liked him better. Thank you again, Inspector. There was more, a little more. To curry the pharmacist was called back to the witness box. How many times did the defendant come to your shop, sir? Six times. Each time she bought six Pennywatts of arsenic. And what reasons did she give for these purchases? First it was killing weeds in the back garden. Then it was rats at the Smith's country place. And finally rats at their city hoose. Did anyone else connected with the defendant ever stop in your shop? A servant. One of the men's servants from the Smith's hoose. He asked for plastic acid. To heighten the defendant's hands, he said. I told him, nice young lady shouldn't have poison like that around. I refused to sell it to him. She came for the arsenic herself about two weeks later. The defense made two points. The sweetness and the excellent background of the prisoner. The fact that no one found any evidence that the poison had been administered by the prisoner. No one saw her do it was the crime. The judge made the usual charge. The jury retired. He returned to a tense courtroom. Madeleine Smith rose at the court's command and faced the jury. The foreman spoke briefly into the point. We find the case for the crown not proven. Our verdict is not guilty. When did the trial of Madeleine Smith? Were the jury right? We shall never know. History is as silent as the little white boxes which lie upon a shelf in their customary place. In the black museum.