 This is Orson Wells speaking from London. Here in the grim stone structure on the Thames, which houses Scotland Yard, is a warehouse of homicide. A warehouse where everyday objects, a salt shaker, a pair of scissors, an umbrella, all are touched by murder. A walking stick, black wood, silver mounted. Maybe it's real ebony. A stick which might have belonged to your grandfather. It's that vintage, about 1865. A gracious hero with crinolines and beaver hats. Still harping on that walking stick of yours, Martinsen? I've stated a thousand times and in public this stick was given me by Garibaldi. I'm proud of it. Well, it's not really my business, of course, but don't you think, Martinsen, you ought to stop lying to yourself? Even if you don't stop lying to the gullible public. That walking stick can be seen today, in the Black Museum. As 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. Mozzolien of murder. Make no virtue of killing, but I'm fascinated by the facts. Facts I've learned in this room from these silent witnesses to the act of murder. Now this is a plaster cast of a heel print. Found, it says, on the small label in a flower bed outside a ground floor window, not the scratches and rubber heel. Those markings led a man to the gallows. This is a steel file, sharp pointed, well tempered, meant for cutting metal cleanly. This file, no, it was not used to escape a prison. No, it was used to put a man in prison. This file became a weapon cut through human flesh and bone. Ah, here we are, a walking stick. It came from Grasco more than 80 years ago, 1865. His owner was Dr. Richard Martinson, an interesting fellow. Loved to give lectures, sometimes with land and slides on places where he said he'd been. This is Capri, lovely isle in the Mediterranean, loveliest of all the seven seas. Here, as you can observe, blue waters with a picturesque coastline. Adding to this... He had the soul of a poet, apparently, this Dr. Martinson. And he was, according to himself, a great lover of liberty. I knew Garibaldi, whose courage was as great as man's can be. Garibaldi set freedom above life. He gave me my walking stick as a token of the highest steam in which he held me. Altogether, I could have marked both men. Of course, there were those in Grasco who were skeptical, perhaps with reason. Capri, my foot. Martinson's never been out of the British Isles except for one week in Paris. The nurse for that Garibaldi nonsense balder dash. The discussions about his veracity didn't help Dr. Martinson's practice. This was something of a pity as the doctor had a wife who was chronically ill. And how are we today, Sylvia, my dear? As well as I can expect, Richard. Have you had anything to eat today? I don't have any appetite. You know that. The tonic I gave you is to stimulate your appetite, dear. Oh, I can't abide the tonic, Richard. I'm sorry, but I can't. You make me feel rather inadequate, darling. Not only as a provider, but as a doctor as well. Oh, don't feel like that, Richard. Please. It's not you. You're doing your best, I know. I hope I am, my dear. I truly hope I am. It is a little strange. I'm the one who's ill, and I'm doing the... But Dr. Martinson bore up under his trials. He bore up rather well. And then company came to stay. Richard, I don't believe you're giving Sylvia proper attention. Now, Mother Tuamish is getting the best medical care available. And she still won't eat. Richard, you're a fool. I won't have my daughter neglected. I won't have it. You won't have it. So you suppose I enjoy it? I've made up my mind, Richard. I'm taking over where Sylvia is concerned. The first thing necessary is strength. Oh, yes. Mrs. Tuamish had come to stay a while. And she made her presence felt at once in the kitchen. Evelyn, I want to make my daughter something light and tasty. Do you have any tapioca in the house? And, of course, in the bedroom. Particularly in the bedroom. Put the tray on the dresser, Evelyn. Yes, ma'am. Mother, what is it you're doing now? Just rest yourself, dear. You may go, Evelyn. Yes, ma'am. Of course. But, Mother... Oh, darling. Your mother's here now. And you're going to start eating at once. Oh, Mother. Night's tapioca. Light. Really tasty. Mother, I can't. I won't. Look, I'll put some sugar on it right from the bowl. There we are. Now, doesn't that look appetising? I can't stand the sight of it really, Mother. I'm not a child. Look, I'll eat some. Do you remember, dear, how I used to get you to eat when you were a tiny less? By eating from your plate myself. Like this. Now it's your turn, dear. Come on. Of course it didn't work. What did work with you? Of course not. Mrs. Toomey ate all the tapioca herself. Evelyn, what's in the neighbour? Oh, Doctor, she's taken so sick. Who has taken sick, girl? My wife? Oh, no, sir. It's the old... It's Mrs. Toomey. She's taken dreadful sick. Moaning and groaning and all. She wrote me up, she did, with the noise of it. Please, is Mother sick? It seems so, dear. Oh, please do something, Doctor. Please! All right. I'll get her. Meanwhile, you get your coat on and run for Dr. Barkley on the High Street. Hurry now. I hesitate to treat my wife's mother. That's quite ethical, you know. If you're a doctor, you don't treat members of your family yourself. Dr. Barkley, despite his reservations concerning his colleague, honoured his own, Hippocratic oaths. He returned at once with Evelyn. Oh, take my coat, girl. Where's the patient? Yes, sir. In there. Good of you to come over so quickly, Barkley, in spite of everything. Our job, Martinsen, is to heal the sick. Now, let me see the patient. First, Barkley, I think you should see this. Oh, where did you find it? Near her bed. She reeks from the stuff. Oh, then this is nothing more than an ordinary drug... I would diagnose it as something more. She's been taking some of this, apparently. I know they've said it. Opium base. What's your dark laser, Martinsen? Apoplexy. She's the choleric type, you know, apparently subject to these attacks. Now, um, if you'd care to examine the patient, doctor, I should be glad to give you whatever assistance. Barkley examined the suffering woman, described as sedative, and went on his way. He called again the next morning. Oh, she seems to be resting comfortably, Martinsen. She'll be all right in a day or two, I'm sure. If you want me, send the girl. The coolness between the two medical men remained. Seeding events didn't tend to improve their relationship. Richard, my mother, and I'm the one who's sick. It must come to all of us, Sylvia. Your mother lived a full life. Now she is at rest. But I miss her. I miss her terribly. The passing of her mother was extremely upsetting to Sylvia, Martinsen. Her husband, qualified physician that he was, used to the sight of death, seemed somewhat affected himself. His wife was now present to see him. Evelyn, I want you to see something. Yes, doctor. This bottle. Remember it? Well, of course, sir. I bought it from the chemist myself. Mrs. Toomey sent me. She said it was for sleeping. When was that exactly, Evelyn? Day before yesterday. The day she came. And the bottle was full then? Oh, yes, sir. And now... Well, I can see for yourself, doctor. It's more than half the medicines gone. Exactly. And I want you to remember this if there should be any question. Understand? Yes, sir. I've made out and signed the death certificate. Can you find your way to the registrar's office? Oh, yes, sir. Go there then. I'll give you a note. File this paper. I've certified the cause of death as apoplexy. Understand? An obedient girl, that Evelyn. Not too bright, perhaps, but obedient. Very loyal to the doctor. In fact, her loyalty had a tendency to brim over at the hedges. I think he's a grand man, grand. And why may I ask? Well, you only cook for him, Mrs. Bemis. You don't seem at the front of the house like I do so considerate, so kindly. Have some more cheese, Evelyn. Thank you, I will. Now, this cheese. He went to the other end of the city for it, just to tempt the madam to eat something, but she wouldn't touch any of it. It's a husband's duty to care for his wife. A doctor does more than his duty, spends all that time at her bedside, tries to help her every way he can. Hmm. Maybe it's because he's got so much time on his hands, not having many patients and all. I'll have a bit more of that cheese myself. I heard over the fence yesterday half the neighborhood is talking of what a prevaricator he is with his walking stick from the Italian. Nonsense. If he says it was a gift. Then you can be sure it was not. A great one for making up. A bit of below stairs gossip, a touch of the local scandal that kept patients away from the doctor's door, just some gossip at the end of the servants' dinner, so they lingered over the cheese. Poor sick Sylvia had refused. A cheese. My cabinet. Oh, where does the doctor keep his my cabinet of soda? I think in the medicine cabinet. I don't feel so well myself. Oh. I'll get it. Oh, hurry. Oh, my stomach that twisted. Must have been the cheese. Oh, it did taste a bit tangy. Oh. No, thank heaven. And the poor mistress refused to touch it. Thank heaven, yes. Oh, if I can find the soda. If I can find it quickly without water. Another tiny piece of the puzzle. Another incident. The cheese which the wife refused. As she refused nearly every other food in the house. As she literally starved herself, wasting away slowly. Glad you called me when you did, Martison. Your wife's in bad shape. Looks like she hadn't eaten or slept in days. Poor Sylvia. She's had gastric fever for months, you know. No, I didn't know. High time you called me. Send your girl for this sedative. We'll get her some sleep. Then we'll try to take care of her properly. You can't dodge truth with this doctor. As you do with your walking stick. Oh, mother. I see you. You're here. Doctor, what's happening? She's talking to her mother. It happens sometimes in the crisis of gastric fever. The patient has hallucinations induced by weakness. Oh, mother. Help me. I'm afraid to die. Doctor, can you do nothing? No. Sylvia. No. Doctor Martinson's grief seemed genuine. How much of everything was play acting? And how much was truth? And the answer to that question lay in the doctor's own hands. In the shape of a walking stick. That same stick that can be seen today. In the black museum. They chalked Sylvia Martinson's edible to her own family. To place it with her mother. Her heartbroken husband took the long, slow journey. And it was long and slow in 1865. At the church. No. It isn't so. I cannot accept it. I cannot. Wait. Wait. Before you take my beloved away. Let me kiss her sweet lips once more. A trifle overdone, don't you think? Well, perhaps it was sincere. However, the emotion was not considered unseemly. However, other things were considered so. And people at times made it their business to call the attention of strangers to such happenings. Here's a peculiar business, Stuart. Just another letter, Sergeant. A crank, I'd say. I'd like to think so, but this fellow seems to know what he's talking about. Are you certain it's a man, Sergeant? Well, do you notice the signature? Amicus Deutéchi. Friend of justice. Masculine. A man. Ah, uses a foreign language. Latin. That's what it is. Latin. I thought only doctors knew Latin and chemists to read the prescriptions the doctors write. You haven't read the letter yet. Read it, Stuart. Read it carefully. Gentlemen of the police. It appears to me that a man who falsifies the way he obtained a walking stick and creates fantasies of troubles he never experienced may well be a subject for suspicion in other matters. Odd? Why? Go on. Keep reading. The man whose fabrications have entertained some and bore the great many more is the same man whose mother-in-law died some few weeks ago under rather strange circumstances at his house in Socke Hall Street. Yesterday, this man's wife also died under strange circumstances. This man is Dr. Richard Martinson and it is the writer's belief that a thorough investigation can be only of benefit. Either it will restore public confidence in a man of medicine or it will uncover a murderer. Amicus judici. Whee! They never found the writer of that letter but in the Martinson house which was searched Warren provided the great deal of thoroughness while Evelyn Warren looked on. Found this sergeant. Medicine bottle. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary about that in a doctor's house? Or is there no? Is there my girl? Oh no sir. Nothing at all. We have dozens. All with the label? Sleeping draft? Mrs. Tumay is directed? All of them? No sir. Only one. That one. Not much left in it, is there? Anyone been taken it? Oh no sir. The doctor was very definite. No one must attach it. He showed it to me just after the old... Mrs. Tumay passed on. Steward. Yes sir. I want an analysis of the contents of this bottle and I want a copy of the prescription from the chemist to fill it. But there could be anything wrong with it sir. I fetched it from the chemist shop myself. Oh you did girl. Good. Then you can take us there. The analysis was over quickly enough. The report was quite brief. Here it is sergeant. 10% mineral poison antimony. Sufficient to kill a strong man. Let alone an elderly lady. Next stop, the chemist. Our evil and warren have obtained the sedative. My name's Pine sir. Sergeant Pine CID Glasgow Police. Yes sergeant. Do you know this girl? Not my name sir. But you are Dr. Martinson's maid aren't you? Yes sir. I am. Good enough. Perhaps you'll tell me what was in this sleeping draft the girl had here. It's a standard mixture sergeant. Some opium, not very much. It's a lonely small quantities. Some people have been known to boil it. Evaporate the other contents to get at the opium itself. Any mineral poison antimony in it? Poison? Quiet girl. Well sir. That's tartarimetic you speak of sergeant. There'll be nothing like that in our sleeping draft. You're positive. Oh yes. Of course, Dr. Martinson did obtain some of the emetic from us occasionally in the past few months. Enough to cause trouble. He's a doctor sergeant. He'd know how and when to use it. The Telegraph wires. It was 1865 remember. Humped between Glasgow and Edinburgh. Edinburgh Police CID official. Request exhumation order in the topsy. Mrs. Harry Tume daughter. Mrs. Richard Martinson. Suspect homicide. Wire reply. Pine Sergeant Glasgow Police CID. The wheels were turning even while the wheels of the train bringing Richard Martinson back to Glasgow was slowing to a stop in the railway station. Dr. Richard Martinson. Yes, I am he. I'll have to ask you to come with me, sir. May I ask who you are and how you knew my name? Detective Stuart Sir CID. Your description was given me particularly the walking stick. Oh yes, this. Give me by Garibaldi a great man he. May I under arrest? The sergeant has a few questions, sir. If you'd stepped this way, I have a handsome waiting. Sorry to put you to all this, doctor, but it can't be. Isn't way for the autopsies. They took the doctor in charge as they put it at once. Suspicion of murder was the booking. A short while later. Report from Edinburgh, Stuart. Both women were poisoned. The wife was full of arsenic. Apparently he'd been getting into her for quite some time. It's a cumulative poison. The charge was changed simply to murder. The trial paraded the usual number of experts and police officers to the witness box. The medical evidence was almost overwhelming. But through it all, not one shred of motive. No one could find a reason for these deaths. Until at last the solicitor general, the public prosecutor in those days, brought in a surprise witness. Your name, please, miss. Evelyn Warren. Miss Warren, we understand you were the housemaid in the establishment of the prisoner. Yes. And during your employment in that household, did the prisoner make any advances to you? Did he? Answer me, Miss Warren. Yes. When did this happen? Before his wife fell ill. Yes. What did you do about it? I spoke to the mistress. I asked to be... to be let go. What did she say? That I was sustained. She would speak to the doctor. Did she? I don't know. Did the advances continue? Yes. Did he ever ask you to marry him? Did he ever promise to marry you? After his wife died? Answer me. Did he? Yes, sir. But only once. Was this the motive? Counsel for the defense refused to accept it, naturally. Strangely enough, the defendant never took the witness stand in his own cause. Not once during a trial did he utter a word. It was almost as if he welcomed punishment, as if he were already walking out to meet it. The judge spent a part of his charge at the jury on the question of motive. The question of motive is not your concern in this case. Why this murder was committed is of no moment. How it was done? By whom? If murder was committed, and if it was, did Dr. Martinson commit it? You have heard the evidence. Now you will consider your verdict. And during every moment of your deliberations, remember the decision you make can never be undone. The jury was out exactly 55 minutes. The verdict they brought in gave the judge no choice of sentence. Richard Martinson, you stand before us found guilty of the terrible crime of premeditated homicide. It is the sentence of this court that you be carried from the bar to the prison, and there be detained until the 1st of July, 1865, and upon that day to be hanged by the neck until dead. And the walking stick, the evidence which helped the slender value of the doctor's word, that stick which helped to hang him, can be found today in the Black Museum. Why did he do it? What had he to gain? In modern terms, what compulsion drove Richard Martinson to sacrifice his future as a physician to the lies of his lectures, to the fabrication of his walking stick story, to the murder of his wife and her mother? Perhaps today's psychologists would have the answer. In 1865, no one had the answer, not even Richard Martinson himself. He did stay just before he died. I can assign no motive for the conduct which actuated me beyond the species of terrible madness and the use of art and spirits. And now, do we meet next time? Do we meet in the same place? And I tell you another story about the Black Museum. And remain as always obediently yours.