Monday, 4 July 2016

A Touch of Fever: the Poisoning of a Philandering Husband.

Another specimen of poésie trouvée struck me the other day when reading the transcript of an inquest into a case of death by domestic poisoning, a philandering husband despatched allegedly by his wife, the victim having died in extreme agony after being taken ill on his return from an angling holiday in Hampshire, a trip cut short by his complaining of ‘not feeling well’ and having ‘a touch of fever’.

‘Not To Be Taken.’

A Snatch of Conversation.

A few minutes later the wife herself was 
being examined again by her counsel
about the flask of whisky which she said
was in her husband’s possession
before he went on his fishing holiday.
‘He was packing his bag, and I noticed
a new flask of whisky being packed away
among the contents.
I asked who gave it to him.
Was it a friend?
He smiled and remarked,
“Ah Ha!”
“Oh,” I said,
“then perhaps you have
bought it yourself,”
and he grinned,
and said,
   “He He!”.’
The wife joined in the laughter which 

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