SGB Chapter 252

## Chapter 252: The Foundation of Forensic Toxicology (4K8)

The air hung thick with the scent of stale tobacco and desperation in the office of Scotland Yard. Arthur Hastings leaned back in his chair, idly twisting a dark brown strand of hair between his fingers, stretching it out to the sunlight.

Though the hair itself seemed unremarkable, for Scotland Yard, it represented a crucial piece of evidence.

On Arthur’s desk lay a scholarly paper drafted by Chief Inspector Charles Field, head of the Metropolitan Police’s Criminal Investigation Department’s Case Analysis Division. The document, a lengthy discourse filled with various arguments, ultimately boiled down to one conclusion: human hair grows approximately one centimeter each month, allowing for chemical analysis of different sections to determine the time frame during which the victim ingested significant amounts of poison.

The most fitting validation experiment was to combine the paper’s conclusions with James Marsh’s newly discovered Marsh test for arsenic, a groundbreaking discovery by the chemical engineer at the Woolwich Arsenal.

Yesterday’s verification experiment by the Criminal Investigation Department revealed that while arsenic was present in every section of the hair, the arsenic mirror phenomenon was most pronounced near the hair root.

Following this anomaly, Arthur had specifically requested that Scotland Yard hire a doctor from St. Mary’s Hospital to assist in a second professional autopsy. This seemingly reasonable request, however, nearly ignited a storm of fury from the magistrates.

In hindsight, the magistrates’ anger would be utterly unfounded – autopsies should be conducted by professional doctors, a seemingly self-evident truth. But in their eyes, it was tantamount to challenging the entire British legal system, as coroners appointed by courts across Britain, from north to south, east to west, were almost exclusively lawyers.

For centuries, autopsies had been the domain of lawyers. To the magistrates, examining a corpse was a legal issue, not a medical one. Allowing doctors to perform this task was nothing short of usurpation.

Unless one was a true Brit or had lived in a Christian society for a period, it was difficult to comprehend the magistrates’ reasoning. However, it became clear when considering the origins of the British courts.

On the island of Britain, residents were typically organized by parish, leading to the natural emergence of various religious courts as the earliest legal institutions. These courts, however, encompassed more than their literal meaning. Burning heretics was just one of their duties, and not one frequently exercised, as heretics were not easily found. They weren’t like crops that could be harvested seasonally.

For the most part, religious courts functioned similarly to ancient Chinese yamen. Parish residents would bring their problems to these courts: disputes over inheritance, contract breaches, petty theft, neighborly quarrels – all were brought before the priests to seek divine judgment.

It was precisely for this reason that the chief justices of Britain and other Christian nations in early times were almost invariably members of the clergy.

In those early days, with limited productivity, each parish held mainly priests, farmers, blacksmiths, carpenters, and the like. Professional doctors were scarce, and those who existed were unlikely to be found within a ten-mile radius. Naturally, the priests, immersed in theology and natural sciences, became the highest intellectuals.

According to Christian tradition, priests often learned some healing arts. Parish residents would usually turn to them for medical help when ill. As such, the priests, serving as judges in religious courts, naturally assumed the role of coroners.

Up to this point, the logic was sound.

But the trouble started with King Henry VIII. This king, unable to produce an heir, divorced several times, ultimately provoking the Pope to refuse further divorce requests.

Incensed, Henry VIII declared independence, establishing the Church of England as separate from the Roman Catholic Church. He became the head of the church, ruthlessly suppressing domestic Catholic forces and restructuring various courts.

Judges were no longer exclusive to the clergy. Over time, appointing professional lawyers as judges became the societal consensus.

The problem, however, was that lawyers not only usurped the judges’ positions from the priests but also took over the duties that had previously belonged to them, such as coroners.

This resulted in the curious phenomenon of coroners across various courts being predominantly lawyers.

Unsurprisingly, the coroner appointed by the Westminster Magistrate’s Court in the Harrison MP case was also a lawyer.

While Arthur’s suggestion of a doctor conducting the autopsy was reasonable, legal regulations stipulated that autopsy reports submitted by individuals not appointed by the court could not be used as evidence.

Even worse, the magistrate presiding over the Westminster Magistrate’s Court was none other than George Norton. Getting him to budge was practically impossible.

Arthur reasonably assumed that Bernie Harrison’s audacity stemmed from this fact.

Therefore, if Harrison refused to withdraw his lawsuit, Scotland Yard had only one way to definitively nail Bernie Harrison with evidence.

If Sir Peel and the Tories couldn’t reach an agreement, and Bernie Harrison remained adamant in refusing to resign his seat, Scotland Yard would have to submit the case to the House of Lords.

According to law, the House of Lords, as Britain’s highest court of appeal, was the only body with the authority to try MPs. Arthur could only take the materials and the records he had obtained from the Thames River Drowning Prevention Society to the House of Lords, presenting a live demonstration and scientific experiment before the lords.

The decision of whether to appoint a professional doctor as coroner to submit a legitimate autopsy report would then rest with the lords.

Although this report wouldn’t prove that Bernie Harrison had killed the woman, it would at least demonstrate that the victim, the maid, hadn’t drowned. Coupled with Bernie Harrison’s identity as a perfume merchant, even if he escaped conviction, his political career would be over.

Furthermore, this would undoubtedly lead to public censure of the Tories, as Bernie Harrison was one of their own. This was something Sir Peel, who was dedicated to bridging the internal divisions within the party, would rather avoid.

Thinking about it, Arthur couldn’t help but rub his face. After pondering for a long time, he finally rang the bell in his office.

Tom entered, asking, “Arthur, what’s the matter?”

Arthur tucked the hair into the paper on his desk, then placed them both into a brown paper bag and handed it to Tom. “Go to Sir Peel’s residence and give him these. Hopefully, the information inside will help Sir Peel persuade Harrison to back down. If Harrison is a sensible man, he should understand that these alone will prevent him from getting anything he wants.”

Tom nodded in understanding, took the brown paper bag, saluted Arthur, and left, closing the door behind him.

The Red Devil, curled up on the office sofa with a sugar jar, tossed sugar cubes into his mouth and asked, “Arthur, you seem quite sentimental. After this, Peel will be very grateful to you. If the Tories manage to stay afloat, your contribution today will be remembered.”

Arthur took a sip of tea and replied, “Agareus, you misunderstand. The Tories are split. What good does that do for everyone? A strong opposition party can exert the greatest pressure on the ruling party. After all, it’s usually the opposition that has the best intentions. One-party rule isn’t necessarily a good thing in most cases.”

Agareus raised an eyebrow and chuckled, “Oh really? Is that so? Don’t you have any tiny, insignificant, personal motives?”

“Agareus, what are you thinking? I’m just a humble public servant.”

Pausing, Arthur took another sip of tea and added, “Of course, if the Tory MPs, as the opposition party, are willing to not create too much resistance on the police equipment upgrade bill when Parliament convenes next month, we at Scotland Yard would be delighted. You know, boys always love to tinker with new toys. I’ve got my eyes on that Colt revolver. Hmm… maybe I should persuade that American fellow to set up a factory in London soon. His family seems to have money. Setting up a production line shouldn’t be a problem. Hmm… right, we still need to address the patent issue. American citizenship isn’t very convenient for doing business in Britain. Maybe I should encourage him to become a British citizen. It’s our own stuff, so we can use it with peace of mind.”

As he spoke, Arthur suddenly noticed that Agareus’s red eyes were fixed on him intently, the devil’s smile sending a shiver down his spine.

Arthur coughed lightly and reiterated, “Of course, you understand. The purchase of Colt revolvers isn’t a matter of personal preference. Scotland Yard will fully respect Parliament’s decision.”

Agareus nodded repeatedly, rubbing his hands and chuckling wickedly, “Yes, yes, that’s right. Scotland Yard is simply responding to the public’s call. After all, you can’t treat every operation like the Battle of Waterloo at the Regent’s Crescent. You’re not the British Army.”

Arthur, hearing this, realized he had forgotten something. He stood up, ready to leave, but then turned back and grabbed a can of cocoa powder from a store on Jermyn Street, originally from Central and South America, and tucked it into his pocket. Looking at the brand on the can, he muttered to himself, “Alexander seems to enjoy this cocoa powder, but I don’t know if it’s his French genes at work or if it evokes memories of his grandmother.”

…

In the prison cell of Scotland Yard, there was a distinct area that differed from the other solitary confinement cells.

Two skylights were thoughtfully installed on the red brick wall. The not-too-large bed was equipped with two clean and tidy blankets that seemed brand new. Next to the bed stood a simple dressing table, which, to the astonishment of the other prisoners, was filled with various bottles of hair oil, cologne, and other items that seemed to be exclusively for women, even a mirror.

However, this wasn’t the most intriguing aspect for the prisoners. What truly made them envious was that the cell also contained a small dining table. Moreover, while everyone else ate black bread and potatoes, this particular inmate was treated to four dishes and a soup.

Despite their envy, however, none of the prisoners harbored any jealousy towards this treatment.

Everyone assumed that the four-eyed fellow wouldn’t be alive for long. He was going to be hanged in a few days. Why envy him?

Just two days ago, another individual joined the ranks of those who were envied yet not envied.

Next door to the four-eyed fellow, a robust young man was brought in, and they received essentially the same treatment.

Perhaps due to the empathy of “high-end technical talents” or the shared plight of death row inmates, they would often chat through the window that could only fit half a face.

“Mr. Wheatstone, I remember you said you were a natural philosopher, specializing in acoustics?”

“Actually, I’ve also dabbled in electromagnetism, but for reasons I can’t disclose, I can’t reveal too much about my research findings. But I can tell you about the acoustics field. Do you know about the phonograph? The phonographs on the market in London are all my products.”

“You’re the inventor of the phonograph?” Louis Bonaparte exclaimed, “My God! Are the Brits crazy? Why would they imprison someone as brilliant as you?”

Wheatstone, with a look of wisdom, lit a cigar from the table, leaned against the cell wall, and blew out a long plume of smoke, “That’s a long story, my friend.”

Louis Bonaparte, hearing this, pushed a bottle of gin, freshly delivered that morning, through the bars of the window. “You have stories, I have liquor. Let’s have a good chat. By the way, do you have any more cigars? Give me one, will you?”

Wheatstone, hearing this, grabbed a handful from his cigar box and shoved them through. “Smoke, smoke away. He said my expenses here are all on his tab. You don’t have to be polite with me.”

Louis Bonaparte bit off the end of the cigar and spat it on the floor. He lit it with a match and took a long drag, feeling a surge of energy. “By the way, who is this ‘he’ you mentioned?”

“Who else?”

Wheatstone replied, “That notorious rogue of London society, the head of the street thugs, the thug among the heads of Scotland Yard. He can draw his sword and fight pirates, bully decent citizens, play beautiful music on the grand piano at concerts, sneakily eavesdrop on bedroom secrets for his own amusement, the protégé of Lord Brougham, the Chief Justice, a police star favored by the Duke of Wellington, Arthur Hastings, the police officer with the number MPS6-001, the man with a morbid obsession with imprisonment. That’s the man.”

“Sss…” Louis Bonaparte sucked in a breath of cigar smoke. “So, you were also put in here by him?”

Wheatstone nodded slightly, pushing his gold-rimmed spectacles with a finger. “Also? How did you end up here?”

“I… I guess I offended him, didn’t I? During my interrogation, I seem to have agreed with others and called him a bald British geezer who hasn’t lost his hair yet.”

“Oh…” Wheatstone nodded slightly. “So, you’re in here because you oppose Arthur Hastings?”

“I guess so. How did you get in here?”

“I’m in here because I support Arthur Hastings.”

“I’m different from both of you.”

“Huh? What do you do?”

“I’m Arthur Hastings.”

Leaning against the wall between the two cells, Arthur, with arms crossed, lightly pushed off with his back, springing up in an instant.

He stood between the two cells, with half his face visible from each.

Arthur raised an eyebrow and asked, “I’m glad to see you two gentlemen chatting so happily. I thought I might have caused some psychological issues by putting you in here. It seems my worries were unfounded.”

Wheatstone, seeing Arthur appear, rushed to the door, pounding on it and shouting through the small window, “Arthur, it’s been days. You should let me out.”

Arthur, seeing his expression, simply shrugged. “Charles, you’re being too unappreciative. Do you know how much effort the department has put into making you comfortable?”

Wheatstone questioned, “What effort? Can the living conditions here compare to Regent’s Crescent?”

Arthur sighed in exasperation, “Of course, we can’t move your house here, but to make you feel at ease, we specially invited your neighbor over.”

Wheatstone was confused, “Neighbor?”

Arthur nodded slightly, pointing at Louis Bonaparte. “You don’t know, do you? This Mr. Louis Bonaparte will be your neighbor. The department knows you have social anxiety, so we specially invited him over to help you get acquainted. Charles, you have to understand that Scotland Yard has gone through a lot for you.”

(End of Chapter)