 Whitehall 1212. For the first time in its history, Scotland Yard opens its official files to bring you the true stories of some of its most baffling cases. These are the true... Research for Whitehall 1212 is provided by Percy Hoskins, Chief Crime Reporter for the London Daily Express. The stories for radio are written and directed by Willis Cooper. The voice you will now hear is that of Chief Superintendent John Davidson, custodian of the famous black museum of Scotland Yard. Good afternoon. This curious object, curious, unless you happen to belong to the fraternity of the Green Thumb, is not in the strictest sense a lethal weapon, but, like most implements of husbandry, is quite simple to make it lethal. This thing, if I may be permitted, the somewhat citified form of nomenclature, is used in the eradication of weeds, weeds in a garden or elsewhere. It operates something like this, I'm given to understand. A certain substance, a powder, is placed in here. The nozzle, observe the nozzle, is then placed in juxtaposition with the aforesaid weed. A handle here is pushed vigorously, like this. And a cloud of the substance is ejected onto the weed, which thereupon perishes miserably. Such a device could be, and sometimes is indeed, equally fatal to human beings. For the powder it dispenses is arsenic. Inasmuch as the former owner is no longer extant, having been hanged by the neck until dead, I shall ask Superintendent Frederick George Abbott to relate the essential facts of case number 87-300. It must have sounded at the time of this case some 30 years ago. Go to Hay, I was told, and I thought he was swearing at me. But I quickly learned that Hay is only just across the border in Wales. The railway station, in fact, is in England. Hay is a little town, an old one, and the market centre for quite a countryside along the river Y. And the valley called Cusup Dingle, which separates the two countries. I sought out the local police sergeant whose name was Jones. Catespie up Catespie Jones. Jones is a fairly common name in Wales, it is. But there are not so many of the up Catespie's, I will assure you. I have lived here in Hay all of my life. Then I take it that you know this chap quite well. Yes, I know the foreigner quite well. Foreigner? I'm talking about... What's his name? Major birdsong? Yes, the foreigner. He's an Englishman, Devonshire, isn't it? Where he comes from? I'm sure I don't know. I know all about him. He came here long before the war. That would be eight years ago, and he's... And he's still the foreigner. Whoever is not born in Hay is a foreigner, superintendent. What else do you know about him, sergeant? Well, he became partner to Mr. Gwillam Evans, a solicitor. And when Mr. Evans died in 1913, he succeeded to the business. And then he went to the wars and came back a major. And then he wanted to become a partner of Mr. Arthur Hughes. He was the other solicitor. He had an office opposite on Broad Street. But Mr. Arthur Hughes had a young relation with him in his office. And when he died, this young man, who had served with the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, took over the business by the terms of the will of Mr. Arthur Hughes. Which is why you have come down to Hay from London, do you see? As through a glass, darkly. Hay? As through a glass, darkly, sergeant. That's from the Bible, I think. What's your goodness from First Corinthians, sir? You didn't tell me the name of this young man you speak of. Oh, for heaven's sake, he is Mr. Owen Davies, who came so near being the late Mr. Owen Davies. I thought it was a maid in Davies' house who almost died. That is true, of course. But if Mr. Owen Davies had eaten one of the chocolates, he might have been made ill and he might have died, superintendent. But he didn't. God be thanked. You're certain these chocolates were poisoned? Dr. Llewellin examined them, superintendent. But why do you suspect this major birdsong germ? You don't know the chocolates came from him, do you? Who else would have a motive? And besides, isn't he a foreigner? The next order of business, having arrived on the earliest of the three trains a day that served the town of Hay, was breakfast. And not bad either. Bacon and eggs, scones with bitter dundee marmalade, several small oceans of tea. Not bad, not bad at all. Then Sergeant Jones and I called upon Mr. Owen Davies, the former Welsh fuselier, who had avoided an untimely demise by not eating chocolates. I wanted to know more about that. No, sir, I don't know where they came from. Well, Mr. Davies, isn't it just a trifle unusual? I know where they came from, some shop or other in London, but who sent them, I mean, I don't know that. Oh. Or where do you think they came from? Well, I thought my wife bought them, I suppose. And, indeed, to goodness, she thought Mr. Owen Davies had bought them, Superintendent. So you tucked into them without asking anyone, eh? I didn't eat any, Superintendent. Neither did my wife. It was the maid Gladys Powell, the maid. She ate one. And became violently ill. And it was arsenic poisoning Dr. Llewellyn diagnosed, and he called me. Did she die? By the grace of the Lord know. But she was a very sick little girl. Sir, sir, right, stealing chocolates. Oh, I'd hardly call that stealing, Mr. Davies. She'll not get another opportunity in my house. I sacked her. And what made you suspicious of this other chap, major birdsong? He kindly don't pronounce his name so loud, officer. I know. Can he hear me? He is looking at us this very moment, Superintendent. What? Where? Sit still, I beg you. His office is directly across the street. Oh, you mention that, didn't you, Jones? He is looking out of his window at us this moment, sir. Eh? You can see us then. I? You're sure he has no idea that he is suspected? I am sure of that, sir. Strikes me, it's an awfully thin case against him, Jones. After all, all you have is the fact that he lost out on gaining this business. Look, the fellow smiling over here is waving. He'll be coming over here any minute now. Hello, birdsong. Oh, you're on good terms, eh? One has to be. He's wondering who you are, Superintendent. No, he does look very dangerous. I'm not so sure. Look here, I came here to investigate an attempted murder, Mr. Davies. I'm beginning to believe that I'm wasting my time talking about a sordid little case of business jealousy or something like that. Oh, no, we don't think so, sir. Well, I know you don't think so, Jones. Superintendent, you don't understand. I don't like these village feuds. Well, I must admit, Superintendent, you might think that that is what is upsetting us. I do. But it is more than that, sir. Major Birdsong owes me and one of my principles a large sum of money which I have been pressing him to pay. And Major Birdsong has been quite insistent that he cannot pay the sum, which as I say is quite considerable. Is that a motive for attempting murder? Major Birdsong is a very violent man. Like so many small men, he's a very violent man. Indeed, yes. Has he threatened you? He has indulged in some very violent language. He seems friendly enough now. I'm still afraid of him. And I too, Mr. Davies. May I ask why? It is a long story. Tell us. Well, he lives across the border at Mayfield in Cusup Dingle. Across the border, sir, in England? That's not so very reprehensible, Mr. Davies. Except to a Welshman. That's not the point, Superintendent. What is, then? The man has rather extensive lawns and gardens at his home. And to hear him tell it life with him is a continual battle with weeds. Well, most gardeners have that. He carries on a continuous war against weeds. Quite savage, Superintendent. He works harder destroying weeds than he does at his office. Yes, with arsenic weed killer, Superintendent. He's the only man in the village who keeps a stock of pure arsenic on hand, Superintendent. How do you know that? From my father-in-law, the village chemist, who sells it to him. Are you happily married, Mr. Davies? No, I... I hope you are. Why? You've just said that your wife's father also deals in arsenic, sir. In wholesale lots. Having left, Mr. Owen Davies, with what the Irish sometimes call a flea in his ear, I removed myself to ruminate a trifle. This suspicion of the foreigner major birdsong I must admit appear to me most absurd, as I'd no doubt it also appears to you. Of the two, I was most impressed by birdsong, although I'd had but scant opportunity to observe him from across the street. I went to call on him. I wanted to form a better opinion of the man. He was a small dapper man with the most military moustache who seemed a trifle too large for him. The birdsong I've mentioned. I am major birdsong, yes, sir. May I be of service to you? I noted a black mourning band on the left sleeve of his jacket. Nobody told me about that. Another point in his favor I noted mentally. Man still wearing mourning for close relatives, hardly the type to attempt murder. A major birdsong I said, I'm Superintendent Abbott of Scotland Yard. He smiled cheerfully at me through his huge moustache. Come to arrest me for sending poison chocolates to Davies across the street? You know about this thing, then, sir. Little difficult to keep a secret, you know, in a town like this, Superintendent. What sort of chap is this, Davies? An amiable fathead. Not so amiable, either. Rather soured on the world. I suppose you noticed his expression. Well? A machine gun brought it through his cheek at Hummel on the Somme. Stiffened up his face muscles, can't smile. Well, that so much lost him. I never knew him to smile much before he was wounded. Come on, chap. What's this rail between him and you? Well, I was naturally a bit upset about the way he did me out of old Hugh's business, which I considered would someday be mine. And... I was quite caught up. Natural, I suppose, but Davies. Odd beggar. You are in money? Not anymore. If you've ever seen a mountain made out of a molehill, that was it. I hear it involved a considerable sum of money. He accused me? I saw you in his office with Dogbury Jones, the local limber for law of it again. He accused me, as usual. He wasn't very happy with you. He was very annoying. He was quite legitimate, but he made rather an issue out of it. I think because I was strapped and couldn't find the money at once. But you settled that indebtedness now. Yes. I fortunately came into some money recently, although it took most of it to pay off this fellow. I should be quite well off if he hadn't. Oh, well, it's all over now and forgotten. I'm not so sure of that, Major Burton. Oh, come now. Well... Does the man actually think I said to poison chocolates? He points to your use of arsenic. I use my arsenic on weeds. Nasty things. I've been using arsenic for eight years or more here, or rather, my home. I haven't been accused of murder yet. Besides, I buy my arsenic from his father-in-law. I pointed that out. How do he and the old gentleman get along? Trotiously. Oh? I think that wound of his is rather put him a little off his trolley, really. I've seen many a case like it. Nothing serious, you know, but... I was in the army, you know. Oh, is that it? You could almost lie to him. I was in the ASC. Then I... I take it that, so far as you're concerned, Major, there's no ill feeling between you. Oh, decidedly not. Business. All said in love and war and business, you know. As a matter of fact, he and I are driving over to my place. Mayfield, you know, and Cusott Dingle and my house for tea together. That's how unfriendly I am, Superintendent. Even if I am a foreigner. Well, don't serve chocolates, Major Verzong. That's my advice. Thank you, sir, and good afternoon. Much later in the afternoon, I sat in the saloon bar of the Red Dragon with Sergeant Catesby, F. Catesby-Jones, and Dr. David Llewellyn, the local doctor who had diagnosed the illness of David's maid as arsenic poisoning. We drank sparingly of the local beer. I gather you don't think so much of the case, Superintendent. I've seen and heard very little so far to convince me that your major bird songs are potential murderers, Sergeant Jones. Well, Gladys Powell was certainly poisoned by arsenic, sir, as Dr. Llewellyn can tell you himself. There is no doubt of that, Superintendent. If I had not taken prompt preventive measures, she would be dead this minute, so she would. Who supplied the poison, doctor? I know of no place in this vicinity where arsenic is kept except at bird songs. And the chemists? Well, yes, at the chemists. Who is Owen Davies' father-in-law? That is so. You think bird song though, don't you, doctor? Dr. Llewellyn, I'm thinking perhaps Superintendent should know about Mrs. Bird Song. What about her? She died. Is that why he's wearing the morning band on his sleeve? It is. Recent then, quite. Mm-hmm. Did she leave him some money? She did. That is where Major Bird Song got all the money to pay, Mr. Owen Davies. And just in time? Oh, what's your dial? Sergeant, you're not drinking your beer. Pour some of it in my glass. Here, let me get you one. No, this is quite enough. I do not indulge very often. Thank you, Catesby. Here, let me. No, no, no, Superintendent, thank you. You were talking about Mrs. Bird Song, doctor? Yes. She was the one in the family who had the money. Bird Song never had anything. Not her fathering. Not till she died. Correct. Mrs. Bird Song had always been a little, shall I say, unstable. I was her physician, you see. About a year ago, she developed certain symptoms. All right, doctor. What kind of symptoms? Her mind. Oh. And at last, I, together with Dr. Thomas Wattry of Camarthen, an old and valued friend of mine, and an excellent man, certified her as insane. She was in an asylum at Gloucester for some seven-month superintendent. She died there? No. She recovered rather well. Not completely, you understand, but legally sane. Legally? What do you know about this, Sergeant? Indeed, I know all about it, sir. She was brought home to Cusock Dingle, their home. Do get me another beer. I am thirsty. I'll get it, sir. That is good of you, Kate Spie. About a month after she returned home, oh, I must add, that major Bird Song was most insistent that she be released from the asylum. About a month later, she developed another symptom, a physical symptom, and then she died. Here you are, doctor. Oh, thank you, Kate Spie. You didn't say what sort of symptoms, Dr. Llewellyn? I what? I'm a true Welshman, and this man is an outlander, an Englishman. But I'm also a doctor of medicine, and I have taken the oath of hypocritees, and I will not suborn myself. He is a foreigner, but I can't help that. I know that, sir. Where is my beer? In her will was admitted to probate. Just in time, superintendent. Just in time, leaving him all her money and cutting off the rest of her relations, father, brother, all of them, without a sixpence, two things came to light. One, the will was a new one, Lee Gull, of course, drawn up only a week after she returned from the asylum. Sergeant Jones, you may tell the superintendent what else was discovered. There were certainly irregularities in the witnessing of the document, sir. Indeed, there was a considerable disagreement about it, but it was finally decided that the man had had trouble enough with his wife insane and then dying. Nothing was said about it. But the evidence is there. Yes, it is. If evidence indeed it be, sir. I'd like you to tell me about those symptoms of Mrs. Birdsong's, Dr. Llewellyn. After carefully going over those symptoms in my mind as best my memory serves. Yes. And in the light of certain recent occurrences of which you are now aware. Get over it, doctor. I am prepared to state that her symptoms might, might, mind you, have been those of arsenic poisoning. But you cannot prove that, doctor. A post-mortem examination called superintendent. You realize what that would mean? Shall the wicked escape while the hunters rest? I thought for a long time that night to the ruin of a good night's sleep. Would the director of public prosecutions take seriously the views of this country doctor and this country police sergeant and order an exhumation and a post-mortem examination of the body of Mrs. Mildred Birdsong? Or would they consider me a gull, a too-ready-believering gossip? I fell asleep after a long time and I was awakened by the clatter of a bell in my ears. Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh, it's the telephone. Hello? Is that Superintendent Abbott? Yes, yes. It's the Superintendent Abbott here. Who, who? Sergeant Kate... Who? Oh! Hello, Jones. What on earth? Sir, I would never... What time is it? 4.26. 4.26. In the morning? I assure you. Dr. Llewellyn, what's the matter with the doctor? He'll talk to you soon. Where are you at the police station? Yes. Yes, this is Abbott, doctor. What's happened? Lieutenant Abbott... Davies, has he been hurt? No. Ill? What's the matter? I think I got here in time. What's the matter? You remember? Yes, of course. David... What are you trying to tell me, doctor? I hurried, of course, to the home of Mr. Owen Davies who was moaning and feeling very ill indeed. Fortunately, sir, Dr. Llewellyn, to me, arsenic is thrown off quite rapidly from the human body. So he's in scant danger now, but it might very easily have been fatal. You can be certain that this is arsenic poisoning, doctor? No. I cannot be absolutely certain by what rough and ready test I've been able to make here, but we'll know very soon. How's that? I've sent Kate Speed-Jones with samples to the Clinical Research Association, and they'll find out for me whether arsenic is present. It couldn't be anything else. He has the symptoms of a severe bilious attack, that's true, but that rapid pulse that could be arsenic's doing. You're not sure, then? Frankly, no. But you will know. One way or the other, before very long. May I talk to him? Yes, of course. Not very long, though, of course. Of course. In here. Well, Davies, what happened to you? He doesn't know anything about your suspicions, does he, doctor? No, of course not. What happened, Davies? That South down there tried to poison me. You had tea with him at his home, didn't you? Yes, he had scones. And what? Scones, you know. Those Scottish cakes. I love the blasted things. That's given me this... Indigestion. Did he eat any of them, too? That song? Yes. No. And I wish he had. Doctor, this isn't indigestion, isn't it? I'm not going to die, am I, doctor? Eventually, Owen, but I doubt you will this time. I really thought he did poison me. After all, he did try it once. You really do dislike the man, don't you, Davies? Now, now, Owen, don't excite yourself now. Come along, superintendent. We've had long enough with him now. I'm going to be sick. Have me that patient, Abbot, and get out. I got out. I went and sat in Mr. Owen Davies' chair by the fireplace in his sitting room and waited. I heard footsteps creaking down the stairway. That was Mrs. Davies, I assumed. I remember hearing Dr. Llewellyn's voice and the woman as I drifted off to sleep. Still less than half past five in the morning after all. And then I was awakened by a distant telephone bell. And I listened. Dr. Llewellyn speaking. Oh, good morning, Kate Spie. You got there all right? There was someone there. They made their tests. What was it? What did they find, Kate Spie? Good. I'll tell superintendent Abbot he'll want to know. I was on my seat before he finished talking. Abbot! What did they find? What I suspected. John Davidson here. Black Miss A. Amino. Superintendent Abbot's mind was, of course, made up. He petitioned the Director of Public Prosecutions for an exhumation order on the body of Mrs. Mildred Byrdson. He also arrested the major for the attempted murder of Owen Davies. I expect you want to know how the arsenic got into the poison chocolates that were intended for Owen Davies and presumably into the poison scones. You remember that squirt gun affair that Superintendent Davidson showed you in the black museum? Sergeant Kate Spie apt Kate Spie Jones who had kept the remainder of the poison candies went over the cuse of Dingle to Birdsong's home, Mayfield. Tell us what you did, Sergeant. I brought back that same squirt gun. It was still half full of arsenic and tiny holes in the bottoms of the chocolates matched the nozzle of the thing perfectly. The arsenic had been injected into the candies by goodness and it was Major Byrdsong's weed gun that had done it. For indeed to goodness there were small traces of chocolate on a nozzle of the thing. And so indeed to goodness we charged him with that, too. But we knew he couldn't be hanged for an unsuccessful murder, of course, and so did the Major himself. And so he sat in the village jail until the justice of the peace could see him until the late evening of that rainy day a week later. The body of Mrs. Byrdsong was exhumed at six in the morning. It was taken to a 400-year-old stone house not far from Cusop Churchyard where she had been buried. And there awaited Norman Kirby, the home office pathologist with Dr. Llewellyn and me. I stayed outside. And for that afternoon Llewellyn came out. Well, Dr. Llewellyn, I said... We found it. Enough. Some of the internal organs are fairly solid with its superintendent. We found, or rather Norman Kirby did, and he had the reagents to prove it found nearly three-and-a-half grains of arsenic months after she was buried. A jury can't mistake that, my boy. He stood up in the little cell when I opened the door. Albert Byrdsong, I said, I arrest you on the charge of the wilful murder of your wife, Margaret Clark Byrdsong. Correct. And I warn you that anything you say in writing may be used in evidence. Do you have your notebook, Sergeant Jones? Indeed, to goodness I do, sir. I'll make a statement. I'll make a statement. Yes, I killed her. I killed her because I had to have the money. I had to pay that... No point in calling names, is there? That fellow townsman of mine, oh, in Davies. I'm sorry, but she wasn't much use anyway. Don't mind, you know. It's a pity, but I had to do it. That's the long that's short of it. I'm sorry about Davies. I mean, I'm sorry I didn't succeed. He richly deserved it. After all, it was on his account I killed Mildred, Inspector. Why not hang him instead? The jury at the summer of sizes at Hereford. The murder was committed at their home in England. Not in Wales where his office was situated. That jury recommended that Albert Birdsong himself be hanged. And so he was. Here today on Whitehall 1212, Horace Brayum as Superintendent Abbott. Others in the order of their appearance were Harvey Hayes, Winston Ross, Lester Fletcher, Maurice Dalamore, and Guy Spall. This is Lionel Rico speaking. Whitehall 1212 is written and directed by Willis Cooper. This is NBC, the national broadcasting company.