It's all about having "conversations" now, and I want to have one about the University of California, which, to my knowledge, has a history of abusing women.
In the past, campus police and administrators have conspired to cover up violent crimes and deny victims and survivors justice and compensation. They maliciously lied--in writing, by the way--to elected officials who responded to pleas for help from a psychiatric nurse who was attacked in a parking lot and lay unconscious for an hour, bleeding profusely from multiple wounds on her head. The crime was reported, but police never investigated, even though the location was just yards from the campus police station. They argued in the emergency room that she had "just fallen." They falsified her medical records to transform those wounds into "a laceration" during "an unconscious episode." The campus police lied in a letter for administrators to use--repeatedly--for the purpose of obstructing justice. They falsely claimed that police had investigated, and concluded, "we are unable to determine" if the nurse "was the victim of assault or a simple accidental fall victim."
Dr. Meserve did three days of tests on the victim and concluded that the injuries were sustained in an attack. The victim's outside doctor gave her a fax he sent to UCLA, saying she had been "mugged" and was "lucky to be alive." But, since the police never investigated, determinations were hard to come by.
They malevolently changed Workers' Comp providers without informing the nurse just weeks before the statute of limitations would deny her legal recourse. Maybe the Third Party Administrator who investigated the case for months without being allowed access to police records was making administrators nervous. When the nurse and her family took UCLA on in court, the mighty university sent a lawyer to plead poverty, convincing the judge to toss out the lawsuit before it became to financially burdensome for the behemoth.
The nurse had been left permanently impaired, lost her ability to work, lost her insurance, eventually endured a fourteen-hour, life-threatening, disfiguring surgery, but it was UCLA with its claims of financial hardship that aroused the judge's sympathy. She did not feel that the victim, the survivor, deserved her day in court.
The California Nurses' Association also lacked sympathy for the victim, even though she had for years paid them company dues, presumably to protect her from the abuse of corrupt employees.
The CNA had previously hired attorneys for another psychiatric nurse whom the UCLA Neuropsychiatric Institute had fired on fabricated grounds. Other nurses were fearful and refused to testify on her behalf--except for the nurse who would later be attacked. UCLA "lost" documents and delayed legal proceedings--no claims of poverty from the University this time--but when the hearing finally began, the doctor who supposedly had complained about the nurse testified that she was one of the finest workers he had ever known. Case closed. That nurse left NPI with a major settlement from the morally bankrupt and contemptible institution.
Another employee was raped and brutally beaten in a UCLA parking lot about a week before the first nurse was attacked. Instead of issuing alerts and posting the crime on their website as required by law, police and administrators accused the rape victim's husband of being the perpetrator. When the terrified man, who barely spoke English and was easily intimidated by oppressive authority figures, heard about the second parking lot incident, he called the nurse to warn her that the people in charge could be vicious with her, as they had been with him and his devastated wife.
Yes, they were vicious. "Monsters," as some women have characterized their abusers.
The victim never had a chance. The University had two insurance policies--falsified medical records and the totally misleading, mendacious police letter which the victim was never intended to see. But, it came into her possession a year after the assault, when her Assemblywoman's office contemptuously brushed her off by saying that UCLA "had taken care of the matter."
The monsters answered every inquiry by labeling the nurse a lying malingerer who had only "a laceration." In a typical echo of the police letter, Nancy Greenstein explained--i.e. lied--to the victim's Congressman that "the UCPD fully investigated the incident and took a report." Later, she would write, "it could not be determined whether" the nurse "was the victim of an assault or a simple accidental fall."
William H. Cormier, Director of Administrative Policies and Compliance, was the designated stonewaller who answered every complaint with the very useful, "it could not be determined whether..." and "UCLA considers the matter closed."
But didn't the University bear some responsibility in a failure to protect an employee who had lain unconscious in their parking lot--yards from the police station, and feet from the parking administrator's office--and who suffers to this day?
The nurse thought so, and wrote a nine-page plea for help to the University and Regents. The outgoing president, Mark Yudof, thanked her for the letter "regarding the University's investigation into the cause of the injuries for which you were treated." Irrelevant, of course. She knew the cause.
"William H. Cormier has responded to you on this matter." Only with the lies from the infamous police letter. "I hope you understand, The Regents and I have nothing further to add to what he has already said."
She understands. So do I. That's why I call them "MONSTERS."
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
Thursday, December 7, 2017
Everyone Knew; Nobody Cared. But, That Was Then
There's been a major outbreak of revulsion in the country. It started with ugly allegations involving the repulsive Hollywood mogul and Democrat party donor, Harvey Weinstein. This epidemic of outrage, accusations, apologies, and expiation reached Black Plague proportions with devastating revelations exposing our power elite in show business and government as disgusting predatory misogynists.
My question is, why now? Why not decades ago when some of the offensive sexual misconduct was allegedly occurring. How many women, I wonder, suffered over those decades because no one came forward to protect innocent victims from the established and accepted culture of abuse?
At first I thought Harvey Weinstein's downfall was a signal from the Left that Harvey's friend Hillary was now a loser and no longer welcome at the trough. But the scandal has exploded and is taking down alleged abusers faster than Gloria Allred can say, "Gotcha."
There must be another answer to the question, "why now?"
Could it be that the careers of some early accusers were on life support and slimy cruds like Weinstein weren't exactly preying on aging divas anymore?
Oh, of course not. That would make these brave anti-harassment warriors hypocrites, wouldn't it?
And yet, the host of the Oscars once told best actress nominees that they had made it and could not stop pretending to be attracted to Harvey Weinstein. An inside joke, perhaps, that was never very funny, but was probably very true.
I did my time in show business and what I witnessed left me with definite impressions and attitudes about sexual harassment. When Harvey Weinstein vehemently denies non-consensual sex, I almost think he believes it.
Garry Marshall got me into the business, almost through no fault of my own. A UC Berkely friend got a summer job in Tom Pollock and Jake Bloom's law office. An urgent long distance phone call that first night had me writing a script over the weekend. The silly thing was passed from Jake to Tom to other prominent writers and producers until Harvey Miller read it and gave it to Garry, who called and invited me to fly down for a lunch meeting. He had loved the script and had a "plan" to make me "rich and famous."
Before my momentous lunch with the successful producer/director/writer, I met Jake and Tom, who warned me about the rampant sexuality at Paramount.
Harvey Miller, the writer and producer, also wanted to meet me. He greeted me with, "You're a very pretty girl," and cornered me on the couch in his office. He wanted to say how much he liked the script and did I "have a boyfriend?"
At the time, no one considered sitting too close on a couch sexual misconduct or harassment. It was called "flirting." Coming from Harvey, it almost seemed like a joke. If he had touched me inappropriately, I would have slugged him. Garry later called Harvey the funniest man in America, and based on that first awkward interaction with an insecure, socially inept, grumpy young man, I would have agreed.
When I began working at Paramount, secretaries who stoically endured indignities like producer Jerry Davis lifting their skirts with his prop walking stick, loved talking about the problems their bosses had with women. Harvey Miller, they told me, went out with high school cheerleaders who expected to get acting parts in return. One morning after one of these "dates," Harvey came to Paramount and bragged about his "helluva night." I confronted him and asked if he wasn't embarrassed, using his prominence in television to take advantage of young girls. He flapped his arms and sputtered contemptuously, "You don't know what you're talking about." When he got into television, Harvey explained after calming down, he "felt like a kid in a candy store." Women pursued him, he said, and it made them happy to get close to show business insiders. Harvey invited me to go out with him once. It was to his group therapy session, where, "They'd rip your head apart." I respectfully declined.
I couldn't dislike Harvey. He was like a sad little boy, who sought attention and affection, and finally found a way to feel important. A female producer once said to me, "Show business is for guys who couldn't get a date in high school." That may have been true of Harvey.
Garry was different; he turned insecurity into advantage with his humble, self-mocking sense of humor. As we waited at the bar for a table at our first lunch, he told me to have whatever I wanted, but said, "I only order sissy drinks." He often seemed sweet and vulnerable...and innocent. Women adored him, and he used them, I believe, to combat the insecurities that plagued him.
Matt Lauer, it was said, had a button under his desk which locked his office door. Garry had one too. One day during my first week at Paramount he asked me to work late. After everyone had left, I was called into his office. He was too tired to work, but since I didn't have a car he would drive me home, he said. When he stopped his Cadillac in front of my apartment, I thanked him and said good night. The next morning his secretary told me he complained that I was "the most naïve person" he had ever met.
I started to catch on pretty fast. The atmosphere was sexually-charged, as Tom Pollock had warned, and it became increasingly uncomfortable. The secretaries made me aware of women who were frequent visitors to producers' offices, including Garry's. When they entered, that door lock clicked quite audibly in the reception area. The visitors whom I saw enter seemed genuinely pleased to interact with Garry--who was an easygoing, attractive man--and pleased to be enhancing their career prospects.
With me, Garry's behavior was always avuncular and overprotective. He didn't want me in story meetings with certain writers because "they talk smut." At Christmas he told me to take extra time off because he didn't want me "flying home with servicemen" because they always fly during the holidays and he knew "how they are around young girls."
Eventually, I was asked again to work late in his office. When I sat down I heard the door lock click. He told me that when we met, I was a "sweet young thing," but I "had grown into a sexy lady." Well, I wasn't all that naïve anymore, but "sexy?" No--and definitely not interested in sordid workplace endeavors. I stood up and said, "I'm going home now, Garry." The lock clicked, I opened the door and left without hearing a word from him.
I can't imagine any of Garry's visitors calling themselves "victims" or filing sexual misconduct complaints against him, although one of them later became a Bill Cosby accuser. Garry didn't harass, coerce, or put knock-out drops in a "sissy drink." He was almost meet, maybe hoping for aggressive women to make the first move.
It was difficult for Garry to talk about "letting me go." He finally told me, in that reticent, slow-talking way of his, he "couldn't work with women...unless 'something special' was going on."
I felt disappointed, betrayed, and lost, but not harassed. He had the right to pick the people he wanted to work with, even if he used the wrong criteria to do it.
Garry's secretary called a successful writer we both knew and left a message for him to call me. He became a friend and tried to help by arranging meetings for me with agents. I walked into one office at a big agency where two young men were starting out and looking for clients. "What did you learn at the Garry Marshall School of Charm?" they asked with salacious grins and chuckles. I said I learned that I didn't belong there. Nothing came of that meeting.
I had other encounters with powerful individuals who offered employment--at a price. But, politely declining their terms just meant rejection, not physical assault. I guess I got off easy.
But, something terrible happened to women in the '90s. There was a rapist in the White House--and people--including women--defended him. I can call him a rapist because I know Juanita Broddrick's account of the crime and I believe her. I don't know of any denial from the perpetrator; no reporter ever directly asked him, "Is Juanita Broddrick lying?" The media basically suppressed her story and sanctioned the perp's silence. I also believed Clinton's other brave accusers who were victims of gross sexual misconduct--and they were vilified, ridiculed, and dismissed.
This major victory over victimized women undoubtedly emboldened misogynists--not "sex addicts" but women haters--like Clinton's friend and donor, Harvey Weinstein, Matt Lauer, Charlie Rose, John Conyers, and Al Franken, who provided graphic evidence of physical assault as a women slept. How weak and sick and hateful can a man get? And yet, there are those who defend him, too.
Women who are happily heralding a virtuous new world where all men are decent and respectful need to reconsider their folly. Abusive men won't generate character and sensitivity just because they learn to apologize in the language of political correctness. Those who need to control women will find ways to do it. And they'll find enablers--women who empower them without complaint. At least while they benefit from their abusers, like Senator Claire McCaskill when she was an intern. Then, maybe they, like the women at Fox who worked for years and collected big paychecks under the intolerable conditions of sexual harassment, will file lawsuits, pocket massive settlements, and sign non-disclosure contracts prohibiting them from discussing their ordeals. And it'll be deja vu all over again.
My question is, why now? Why not decades ago when some of the offensive sexual misconduct was allegedly occurring. How many women, I wonder, suffered over those decades because no one came forward to protect innocent victims from the established and accepted culture of abuse?
At first I thought Harvey Weinstein's downfall was a signal from the Left that Harvey's friend Hillary was now a loser and no longer welcome at the trough. But the scandal has exploded and is taking down alleged abusers faster than Gloria Allred can say, "Gotcha."
There must be another answer to the question, "why now?"
Could it be that the careers of some early accusers were on life support and slimy cruds like Weinstein weren't exactly preying on aging divas anymore?
Oh, of course not. That would make these brave anti-harassment warriors hypocrites, wouldn't it?
And yet, the host of the Oscars once told best actress nominees that they had made it and could not stop pretending to be attracted to Harvey Weinstein. An inside joke, perhaps, that was never very funny, but was probably very true.
I did my time in show business and what I witnessed left me with definite impressions and attitudes about sexual harassment. When Harvey Weinstein vehemently denies non-consensual sex, I almost think he believes it.
Garry Marshall got me into the business, almost through no fault of my own. A UC Berkely friend got a summer job in Tom Pollock and Jake Bloom's law office. An urgent long distance phone call that first night had me writing a script over the weekend. The silly thing was passed from Jake to Tom to other prominent writers and producers until Harvey Miller read it and gave it to Garry, who called and invited me to fly down for a lunch meeting. He had loved the script and had a "plan" to make me "rich and famous."
Before my momentous lunch with the successful producer/director/writer, I met Jake and Tom, who warned me about the rampant sexuality at Paramount.
Harvey Miller, the writer and producer, also wanted to meet me. He greeted me with, "You're a very pretty girl," and cornered me on the couch in his office. He wanted to say how much he liked the script and did I "have a boyfriend?"
At the time, no one considered sitting too close on a couch sexual misconduct or harassment. It was called "flirting." Coming from Harvey, it almost seemed like a joke. If he had touched me inappropriately, I would have slugged him. Garry later called Harvey the funniest man in America, and based on that first awkward interaction with an insecure, socially inept, grumpy young man, I would have agreed.
When I began working at Paramount, secretaries who stoically endured indignities like producer Jerry Davis lifting their skirts with his prop walking stick, loved talking about the problems their bosses had with women. Harvey Miller, they told me, went out with high school cheerleaders who expected to get acting parts in return. One morning after one of these "dates," Harvey came to Paramount and bragged about his "helluva night." I confronted him and asked if he wasn't embarrassed, using his prominence in television to take advantage of young girls. He flapped his arms and sputtered contemptuously, "You don't know what you're talking about." When he got into television, Harvey explained after calming down, he "felt like a kid in a candy store." Women pursued him, he said, and it made them happy to get close to show business insiders. Harvey invited me to go out with him once. It was to his group therapy session, where, "They'd rip your head apart." I respectfully declined.
I couldn't dislike Harvey. He was like a sad little boy, who sought attention and affection, and finally found a way to feel important. A female producer once said to me, "Show business is for guys who couldn't get a date in high school." That may have been true of Harvey.
Garry was different; he turned insecurity into advantage with his humble, self-mocking sense of humor. As we waited at the bar for a table at our first lunch, he told me to have whatever I wanted, but said, "I only order sissy drinks." He often seemed sweet and vulnerable...and innocent. Women adored him, and he used them, I believe, to combat the insecurities that plagued him.
Matt Lauer, it was said, had a button under his desk which locked his office door. Garry had one too. One day during my first week at Paramount he asked me to work late. After everyone had left, I was called into his office. He was too tired to work, but since I didn't have a car he would drive me home, he said. When he stopped his Cadillac in front of my apartment, I thanked him and said good night. The next morning his secretary told me he complained that I was "the most naïve person" he had ever met.
I started to catch on pretty fast. The atmosphere was sexually-charged, as Tom Pollock had warned, and it became increasingly uncomfortable. The secretaries made me aware of women who were frequent visitors to producers' offices, including Garry's. When they entered, that door lock clicked quite audibly in the reception area. The visitors whom I saw enter seemed genuinely pleased to interact with Garry--who was an easygoing, attractive man--and pleased to be enhancing their career prospects.
With me, Garry's behavior was always avuncular and overprotective. He didn't want me in story meetings with certain writers because "they talk smut." At Christmas he told me to take extra time off because he didn't want me "flying home with servicemen" because they always fly during the holidays and he knew "how they are around young girls."
Eventually, I was asked again to work late in his office. When I sat down I heard the door lock click. He told me that when we met, I was a "sweet young thing," but I "had grown into a sexy lady." Well, I wasn't all that naïve anymore, but "sexy?" No--and definitely not interested in sordid workplace endeavors. I stood up and said, "I'm going home now, Garry." The lock clicked, I opened the door and left without hearing a word from him.
I can't imagine any of Garry's visitors calling themselves "victims" or filing sexual misconduct complaints against him, although one of them later became a Bill Cosby accuser. Garry didn't harass, coerce, or put knock-out drops in a "sissy drink." He was almost meet, maybe hoping for aggressive women to make the first move.
It was difficult for Garry to talk about "letting me go." He finally told me, in that reticent, slow-talking way of his, he "couldn't work with women...unless 'something special' was going on."
I felt disappointed, betrayed, and lost, but not harassed. He had the right to pick the people he wanted to work with, even if he used the wrong criteria to do it.
Garry's secretary called a successful writer we both knew and left a message for him to call me. He became a friend and tried to help by arranging meetings for me with agents. I walked into one office at a big agency where two young men were starting out and looking for clients. "What did you learn at the Garry Marshall School of Charm?" they asked with salacious grins and chuckles. I said I learned that I didn't belong there. Nothing came of that meeting.
I had other encounters with powerful individuals who offered employment--at a price. But, politely declining their terms just meant rejection, not physical assault. I guess I got off easy.
But, something terrible happened to women in the '90s. There was a rapist in the White House--and people--including women--defended him. I can call him a rapist because I know Juanita Broddrick's account of the crime and I believe her. I don't know of any denial from the perpetrator; no reporter ever directly asked him, "Is Juanita Broddrick lying?" The media basically suppressed her story and sanctioned the perp's silence. I also believed Clinton's other brave accusers who were victims of gross sexual misconduct--and they were vilified, ridiculed, and dismissed.
This major victory over victimized women undoubtedly emboldened misogynists--not "sex addicts" but women haters--like Clinton's friend and donor, Harvey Weinstein, Matt Lauer, Charlie Rose, John Conyers, and Al Franken, who provided graphic evidence of physical assault as a women slept. How weak and sick and hateful can a man get? And yet, there are those who defend him, too.
Women who are happily heralding a virtuous new world where all men are decent and respectful need to reconsider their folly. Abusive men won't generate character and sensitivity just because they learn to apologize in the language of political correctness. Those who need to control women will find ways to do it. And they'll find enablers--women who empower them without complaint. At least while they benefit from their abusers, like Senator Claire McCaskill when she was an intern. Then, maybe they, like the women at Fox who worked for years and collected big paychecks under the intolerable conditions of sexual harassment, will file lawsuits, pocket massive settlements, and sign non-disclosure contracts prohibiting them from discussing their ordeals. And it'll be deja vu all over again.
Monday, May 8, 2017
Death, Lies, and Arsenic: The Riddle of Major Armstrong
[If you research history, as my niece and writing partner Lisa does so brilliantly and relentlessly, you inevitably unearth injustice, corruption and cover-up. Fake news is nothing new; it's been with us forever. There have always been those who lie, who falsely accuse their enemies or opponents, who forge documents or suborn perjury to make their case. And, there have always been those who record and disseminate those lies for future generations to accept as history.
Discerning the truth is never easy, but a conscientious researcher like Lisa , who is the embodiment of our character Brook Forrest in the Forrest Sister Mysteries, tracks down the anomalies, exposes the fabrications and exonerates the innocent.
She does the hard work and shares her results with me. "Read this," she says, "and tell me what you think."
I think she could have prevented the beheading of Mary Queen of Scots, prevented so-called Shakespeare's libel of Richard III, prevented the Transcendentalist defamation of Edgar Allan Poe, prevented the execution of Richard Hauptmann, and on and on.
Of course I'm biased.
Could she have prevented the hanging of Herbert Armstrong? I think the Freemasons had turned on him and wanted to see him framed. It might have been tough even for Lisa.
Here's what she has to say about the case of Major Armstrong.]
It was one of the most publicized poisoning trials in early 20th century England: 53-year-old Major Herbert Rowse Armstrong was accused of delivering fatal doses of arsenic to his wife, and attempting to do the same to a business rival.
Armstrong was a solicitor who lived with his wife and three children in Hay, near the Welsh border. He was a small, very dapper man with a jovial, pleasant demeanor. Most everyone in town liked him. Katharine Armstrong was a very high-strung, fretful woman endlessly obsessed with her health, and a stickler for etiquette that would have done Buckingham Palace proud. On one occasion, she cut short the Major's tennis game because, as she loudly reminded him, it was his "bath night." To all appearances, however, Herbert was devoted to his eccentric spouse.
By 1920, Katharine was showing signs of increasing mental instability. She went into fits of paralyzing depression, and periodically became delusional. In July 1920, Mrs. Armstrong made out a new will--or, rather, her husband did, as it was in his handwriting. In contrast to her old testament, which divided her property between her husband, her children, and other relatives, this new will left everything to the Major.
Mr. Armstrong was in the habit of keeping quantities of arsenic around the house. The dandelions on his lawn were unsightly, he would sigh, and poison was the only thing that seemed to keep them in check. He kept the arsenic in neat little packets. He would fill a tiny squirt gun with arsenic, stick the nozzle against the weed's roots, and fire away. Herbert Armstrong: Dandelion Slayer.
Soon after signing her new will, Katharine's health swiftly declined. Her condition, both mentally and physically, deteriorated so precipitously that she was sent to an insane asylum. By January 1921, she returned home. Although her doctors still considered her mental and physical condition to be precarious, both the Armstrongs insisted that she be released from the hospital. Mrs. Armstrong continued to deteriorate. She was unable to keep down food, and continued suffering from delusions and deep depression. In February, she died, aged only 47. Her physician said she had succumbed to a combination of perfectly natural diseases, and Katharine was given a quiet burial in the local churchyard.
After his wife's death, the Major took a little holiday abroad, and renewed his acquaintance with a widow he had met during the war, Marion Gale. The two discussed the possibility of marriage. The only cloud in the Major's now-sunny sky was an unpleasant business complication. He and Hay's only other solicitor, Oswald Martin, were representing the two parties in a land deal. Various complications arose, and Martin became increasingly impatient. After about a year had passed, he finally declared the contract broken, and insisted that Armstrong's client return the down payment he had received.
Martin received an anonymously sent box of chocolates. The postmark was illegible. He and his wife appear to have never heard that old truism about never taking candy from strangers. They cheerfully put the chocolates out for guests at a dinner party. One of those guests ate the candy, and she became quite ill afterwards. A few weeks after this incident, the Major invited Martin to tea. Over the meal, Armstrong picked up a buttered scone and placed it on Martin's plate. "Please excuse fingers," he smiled. Martin ate the scone, drank some tea, smoked a cigarette, and, after some innocuous small talk with the Major, went home.
That night, he became extremely ill. After Martin recuperated, he had a talk with his father-in-law, Fred Davies. Davies was a chemist--the same chemist, in fact, who sold the Major arsenic. Although Martin's doctor had diagnosed him as having stomach flu, Davies insisted he had been poisoned. Davies had Martin's vomit analyzed, as well as the remaining chocolates he had received. Both were found to contain arsenic.
Law enforcement was contacted. Scotland Yard agreed that there were grounds for suspicion, but they said they needed to proceed carefully. After all, Major Armstrong was a respected lawyer, a Freemason, a popular pillar of his community. He was not the sort of man one heedlessly accused of being a serial poisoner. They promised to investigate the matter. In the meantime, they advised Martin to decline any more of Armstrong's invitations to tea.
This was easier said than done. No sooner was Martin back on his feet that the Major began bombarding him with invitations to have more of those enticing scones and delicious cups of tea. The more Martin declined these offers, the more persistent Armstrong became. The Martins became so rattled that they took turns keeping awake all night. Presumably, they feared Armstrong might break into their home and feed them scones as they slept.
Ten months after her death, Mrs. Armstrong's body was exhumed. Sir Bernard Spilsbury, England's most famous pathologist, performed an autopsy. He ruled that Katherine had died from a massive dose of arsenic. And the next thing the Major knew, he was standing trial for murder. When he was arrested, one of those little packets of arsenic was found in his pocket.
The evidence against Armstrong seemed overwhelming, particularly after Martin was allowed to testify about the tea party. Martin's story transformed the Major from a possible wife-poisoner to a most probable would-be serial killer. In fact, it was his testimony, more than anything else, that put the noose around Armstrong's neck. The most the defense could do was to suggest that Mrs. Armstrong committed suicide. Armstrong himself stoutly maintained his complete innocence. To no one's surprise, the Major was found guilty, and he was accordingly hanged. He remains the only solicitor in British history to be executed for murder.
All the above is the "accepted history" of the Armstrong case. The tragedy inspired several books, a couple of movies, and innumerable chapters in collections of true-crime tales, all giving precisely the same story: the Major was as transparently guilty as defendants can get, and "the little viper" (in the words of crime historian Edmund Pearson) got precisely what he deserved. This open-and-shut quality was why I never paid much attention to the case. I like a bit of mystery with my villanies, and the arsenic-laden Major seemed as unmysterious as murderers get.
However, I recently saw an excellent TV-movie about the case, "Dandelion Dead." The film followed the usual assumptions about Armstrong's guilt, but I was intrigued enough to read more about him. I soon learned that there are at least some people who argue that the case against him is not nearly as iron-clad as most think. In fact, it has been claimed that the Major was the victim not just of a miscarriage of justice, but of a sinister conspiracy.
The revisionist view of the Armstrong case was laid out by Martin Beales in his 1995 book, "The Hay Poisoner." Beales was a solicitor who settled in Hay--in fact, he bought the Armstrong house. Naturally intrigued by the grim events that had taken place under his new roof, he began his own investigation. He obtained access to the original files of the case, including the defense material and other official documentation which have largely been ignored by previous chroniclers of the case. He soon came to a stunning conclusion: the executed man was very likely completely innocent. More than that, Beales believed Armstrong had been framed. His book looked at every bit of "accepted history" about Armstrong and his alleged crimes, and systematically refuted them.
First of all, there was the matter of Katharine Armstrong's second will, which has often been described as something orchestrated by her husband before he carried out his plans to murder her. In truth, as early as 1919 Katherine herself had expressed to relatives her fears that the will she had made out in 1917--when Herbert was away serving in the war--was no longer satisfactory. She explained to her sister that the will had not left enough to her husband, and now that he was safely back home, it needed to be revised. She wanted to make sure that if anything happened to her, he would have enough money to raise their children. While her 1920 will may have been rather informal, no one was able to prove there was anything irregular about it. In any case, Herbert had no need for Katharine's money. Before her death, his bank accounts were in credit, and his client list had been steadily increasing. At the time of his arrest, Katharine's personal income was completely untouched by him.
As for the secondary murder motive attributed to the Major--the "other woman"--a closer look at the truth casts doubt on that as well. His relationship with Marion Gale--who had also been a friend of Mrs. Armstrong's--was perfectly respectable. She was a pleasant middle-aged lady who, he hoped, might provide a motherly presence for his children (the youngest of whom was only five when Katharine died,) and amiable companionship for himself. His motives in wooing Mrs. Gale appeared to have stemmed from practicality, rather than passion.
The fact that Armstrong kept arsenic in the house is not nearly as damning as it would seem to modern sensibilities. For years past, he had, for reasons of economy, made homemade weed-killer, using a recipe clipped from a magazine. Among gardeners of his day, this practice--as well as the little device he used to poison individual dandelions--was extremely common.
There is even a possibility that Katharine's long history of illness had nothing to do with poison. Beales notes that her symptoms--which had been steadily worsening for years, including when Herbert was away during the war--did not fit the classic symptoms of arsenic. They did, however, precisely tally with a diagnosis of Addison's disease, an ailment that, unfortunately, did not seem to have occurred to her incompetent, and later duplicitous, doctor.
Key to Armstrong's conviction was the claim by the medical experts that Katharine died as the result of taking arsenic within 24 hours of her death. However, the medical literature quoted by Beales proves that this was an overly dogmatic declaration. To make a long story short, Beales argued that nearly a year after her death, it would be impossible to say with certainty how much arsenic Katharine may have taken and when. (Complicating the issue is the fact that she took medicines and homeopathic remedies containing various poisons.) Beales concluded: "Katharine could have taken the arsenic from the study cupboard on 16 February accidentally, believing it to be something other than arsenic. She could have removed some of it and continued to take it during her final illness. She could have taken it intending to take her own life. [Note: Katharine had, during her last months, often spoken of suicide.] Equally, Armstrong could have given it to her. However, there was no evidence that he did...No man should be condemned in this way. There must be proof of guilt and there was no such proof."
It is when Beales turns his attention to Oswald Martin and his chemist father-in-law that the story takes a dark conspiratorial turn. Contrary to "accepted history," Beales asserts that Armstrong had no motive to want Martin dead. Rather, Martin's illness was "a potential nightmare" for him. The Major had finally received the necessary paperwork to allow the disputed land sale to be completed on time, and with Martin incapacitated, there was the danger of something going wrong with the contracts. (Also, contrary to Fred Davies' assertions that Armstrong was "jealous" of Martin's practice, Martin was not taking clients away from Armstrong. If anything, it was the reverse.)
There is reason to believe that the famous tea party between Armstrong and Martin--"excuse fingers," and such--was not what conventional wisdom would have us believe. Martin stated that Armstrong had handed him a scone covered with (presumably arsenic-laced) butter. However, it was established that the scones were all unbuttered. Armstrong himself denied ever handing Martin anything to eat. His story was that Martin was free to help himself from the tea tray. Martin did not become ill until hours after tea, and after he had eaten a hearty meal at home. Beales argued that if Armstrong had poisoned him at tea, Martin would have shown symptoms much earlier. It would also have been a remarkably stupid way to poison someone. What if Martin had suddenly taken ill in Armstrong's home, immediately after eating food provided by his rival? How would Armstrong explain that? Finally, Beales noted that Martin's symptoms, like Katharine's, were not characteristic of a large dose of arsenic, particularly since the solicitor had completely recovered within 24 hours. It could well have been, as Martin's doctor had originally believed, gastric flu.
The box of chocolates sent to the Martins on September 20, 1921 was, in Beales' words, "an enigma." Martin himself testified that he and his wife had eaten a couple of pieces with no bad effects. Apparently at least one other guest at the dinner party had taken some, too, without becoming sick. Only two of the surviving chocolates were found to be poisoned, and that had been done in a laughably crude manner. A large hole had been gouged in the bottom of these chocolates, with a clump of white arsenic messily pushed inside. There had been no effort to even close the hole with more chocolate. It was as if someone wanted the arsenic to be noticed.
Beales believed that someone did: Fred Davies. Davies apparently disliked Armstrong and had taken to voicing dark suspicions about Katharine's death. He was also the first to propose that the chocolates had been poisoned--just as he had been the first to assert that Martin had been poisoned at the tea party. Beales pointed to the interesting fact that Davies had warned the Martins about "anonymous gifts sent through the post such as chocolates"--before anyone had told him they had received such a present. Davies took possession of the remaining chocolates, keeping them for a day before handing them to the doctor for examination. It was only then that it was found that two candies were adulterated. It was Davies who had insisted that Martin's urine be analyzed for poison--even though the doctor was convinced Martin was suffering from an innocent illness. It was Davies who provided the bottle for Martin's urine sample and then sent it and the chocolates off for analysis. Was Beales correct in his belief that Davies, in his eagerness to convince everyone that Armstrong had poisoned Martin (which would lend credibility to his claims that the Major had fatally poisoned his wife) tampered with both the chocolates and the urine sample? (In regards to the urine sample, Beales also notes that during Martin's illness, he had been dosed with bismuth, which contains arsenic. That alone could explain the trace amounts of arsenic in Martin's urine. As a side note, Katharine's autopsy revealed traces of bismuth in her intestine.)
No one was ever able to connect Armstrong with those chocolates. The brand was unavailable in Hay. The serial numbers on the box established where and when the chocolates were boxed. They came from a factory some distance away. Armstrong had not left Hay during the period when those chocolates were manufactured and mailed. As was the case with the tea party, poisoned chocolates would be an incredibly bungling way for Armstrong to poison Martin. How could he be sure his intended victim would eat them, particularly since only a fraction of the candies had been tampered with?
In short, all the evidence that Armstrong poisoned Oswald Martin was either astonishingly feeble or decidedly dodgy. And yet, this was used as vital proof that the accused had murdered his wife. The twin charges against Armstrong validated each other: How do we know Armstrong killed his wife? Because he poisoned Oswald Martin. How do we know Armstrong poisoned Oswald Martin? Because he killed his wife!
Beales convincingly argues that Armstrong did not receive a fair trial. His counsel, Sir Henry Curtis Bennett, put up a startlingly lackadaisical defense, failing to take advantage of the multitude of weaknesses and errors in the prosecution's case, and doing little to promote his client's innocence, other than his diffident suggestion that Mrs. Armstrong had committed suicide. Bennett did not even call any character witnesses, allowing the unfounded slurs made against his client--that Armstrong had syphilis and spent his brief widowerhood in pursuit of hedonistic pleasures--to go largely unchallenged. The advocate for the Crown, Sir Ernest Pollock, conducted a prosecution that in Beales' opinion, "bordered on the unethical."
Beales made a strong case that the crucial evidence of Oswald Martin should never have been admitted. English law normally protects defendants from the introduction of other offences committed or allegedly committed by them. Beales noted that as a result of Martin's testimony, "the jurors were bound to be prejudiced against [Armstrong,] because if they accepted that he had in fact tried to poison Martin, they had to be predisposed to believe that he had administered arsenic to his wife. In effect, this meant that Armstrong had to prove his innocence, not that the prosecution had to prove his guilt, and the basic law of evidence had been turned on its head."
However, nothing about the trial was more biased against the defendant than the judge. Lord Justice Darling had a reputation as a "hanging judge" that was more than justified in his handling of the Armstrong tribunal. Before the trial had even begun, Darling was convinced of Armstrong's guilt, and he set out to do everything in his power to send the accused man to the gallows. He took every opportunity to boost the prosecution's case and disparage the defense. And as for his summing-up to the jury, Beales commented that "in the annals of crime" it would be difficult to find a judge's summation that was "more perverse and damaging to any prisoner." Beales believed that if Armstrong's conviction had been appealed to the House of Lords, the admission of Martin's evidence would alone have assured that the verdict would be overturned. However, only the attorney general could grant permission for this appeal. And the attorney general was...Sir Ernest Pollock, the man who had just won a triumphant victory over the condemned man. It comes as little surprise that he refused the appeal.
The last chance to save Armstrong's life was gone, and he was hanged on May 31, 1922. He steadfastly denied his guilt to the end. According to Beales, many people in Hay believed that Fred Davies had been instrumental in sending an innocent and well-liked man to the gallows, and they never forgave him for it. He was essentially driven out of town soon after Armstrong's execution. Oswald Martin left Hay as well. Martin had been crippled during the war, and the lingering effects of his injuries, coupled with his unpleasant experiences during the Armstrong case, left him broken in body and spirit. He died not long afterwards.
"The Hay Poisoner" makes a plausible case that Fred Davies framed Armstrong for the attempted murder of Oswald Martin, and successfully reclassifies Katharine Armstrong's death as an unsolved mystery. The Major may indeed have poisoned his wife: he had means and opportunity, if no evident motive. However, there is a haunting possibility that he did not.
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| Herbert Armstrong, circa 1915 |
Armstrong was a solicitor who lived with his wife and three children in Hay, near the Welsh border. He was a small, very dapper man with a jovial, pleasant demeanor. Most everyone in town liked him. Katharine Armstrong was a very high-strung, fretful woman endlessly obsessed with her health, and a stickler for etiquette that would have done Buckingham Palace proud. On one occasion, she cut short the Major's tennis game because, as she loudly reminded him, it was his "bath night." To all appearances, however, Herbert was devoted to his eccentric spouse.
By 1920, Katharine was showing signs of increasing mental instability. She went into fits of paralyzing depression, and periodically became delusional. In July 1920, Mrs. Armstrong made out a new will--or, rather, her husband did, as it was in his handwriting. In contrast to her old testament, which divided her property between her husband, her children, and other relatives, this new will left everything to the Major.
Mr. Armstrong was in the habit of keeping quantities of arsenic around the house. The dandelions on his lawn were unsightly, he would sigh, and poison was the only thing that seemed to keep them in check. He kept the arsenic in neat little packets. He would fill a tiny squirt gun with arsenic, stick the nozzle against the weed's roots, and fire away. Herbert Armstrong: Dandelion Slayer.
Soon after signing her new will, Katharine's health swiftly declined. Her condition, both mentally and physically, deteriorated so precipitously that she was sent to an insane asylum. By January 1921, she returned home. Although her doctors still considered her mental and physical condition to be precarious, both the Armstrongs insisted that she be released from the hospital. Mrs. Armstrong continued to deteriorate. She was unable to keep down food, and continued suffering from delusions and deep depression. In February, she died, aged only 47. Her physician said she had succumbed to a combination of perfectly natural diseases, and Katharine was given a quiet burial in the local churchyard.
After his wife's death, the Major took a little holiday abroad, and renewed his acquaintance with a widow he had met during the war, Marion Gale. The two discussed the possibility of marriage. The only cloud in the Major's now-sunny sky was an unpleasant business complication. He and Hay's only other solicitor, Oswald Martin, were representing the two parties in a land deal. Various complications arose, and Martin became increasingly impatient. After about a year had passed, he finally declared the contract broken, and insisted that Armstrong's client return the down payment he had received.
Martin received an anonymously sent box of chocolates. The postmark was illegible. He and his wife appear to have never heard that old truism about never taking candy from strangers. They cheerfully put the chocolates out for guests at a dinner party. One of those guests ate the candy, and she became quite ill afterwards. A few weeks after this incident, the Major invited Martin to tea. Over the meal, Armstrong picked up a buttered scone and placed it on Martin's plate. "Please excuse fingers," he smiled. Martin ate the scone, drank some tea, smoked a cigarette, and, after some innocuous small talk with the Major, went home.
That night, he became extremely ill. After Martin recuperated, he had a talk with his father-in-law, Fred Davies. Davies was a chemist--the same chemist, in fact, who sold the Major arsenic. Although Martin's doctor had diagnosed him as having stomach flu, Davies insisted he had been poisoned. Davies had Martin's vomit analyzed, as well as the remaining chocolates he had received. Both were found to contain arsenic.
Law enforcement was contacted. Scotland Yard agreed that there were grounds for suspicion, but they said they needed to proceed carefully. After all, Major Armstrong was a respected lawyer, a Freemason, a popular pillar of his community. He was not the sort of man one heedlessly accused of being a serial poisoner. They promised to investigate the matter. In the meantime, they advised Martin to decline any more of Armstrong's invitations to tea.
This was easier said than done. No sooner was Martin back on his feet that the Major began bombarding him with invitations to have more of those enticing scones and delicious cups of tea. The more Martin declined these offers, the more persistent Armstrong became. The Martins became so rattled that they took turns keeping awake all night. Presumably, they feared Armstrong might break into their home and feed them scones as they slept.
Ten months after her death, Mrs. Armstrong's body was exhumed. Sir Bernard Spilsbury, England's most famous pathologist, performed an autopsy. He ruled that Katherine had died from a massive dose of arsenic. And the next thing the Major knew, he was standing trial for murder. When he was arrested, one of those little packets of arsenic was found in his pocket.
The evidence against Armstrong seemed overwhelming, particularly after Martin was allowed to testify about the tea party. Martin's story transformed the Major from a possible wife-poisoner to a most probable would-be serial killer. In fact, it was his testimony, more than anything else, that put the noose around Armstrong's neck. The most the defense could do was to suggest that Mrs. Armstrong committed suicide. Armstrong himself stoutly maintained his complete innocence. To no one's surprise, the Major was found guilty, and he was accordingly hanged. He remains the only solicitor in British history to be executed for murder.
All the above is the "accepted history" of the Armstrong case. The tragedy inspired several books, a couple of movies, and innumerable chapters in collections of true-crime tales, all giving precisely the same story: the Major was as transparently guilty as defendants can get, and "the little viper" (in the words of crime historian Edmund Pearson) got precisely what he deserved. This open-and-shut quality was why I never paid much attention to the case. I like a bit of mystery with my villanies, and the arsenic-laden Major seemed as unmysterious as murderers get.
However, I recently saw an excellent TV-movie about the case, "Dandelion Dead." The film followed the usual assumptions about Armstrong's guilt, but I was intrigued enough to read more about him. I soon learned that there are at least some people who argue that the case against him is not nearly as iron-clad as most think. In fact, it has been claimed that the Major was the victim not just of a miscarriage of justice, but of a sinister conspiracy.
The revisionist view of the Armstrong case was laid out by Martin Beales in his 1995 book, "The Hay Poisoner." Beales was a solicitor who settled in Hay--in fact, he bought the Armstrong house. Naturally intrigued by the grim events that had taken place under his new roof, he began his own investigation. He obtained access to the original files of the case, including the defense material and other official documentation which have largely been ignored by previous chroniclers of the case. He soon came to a stunning conclusion: the executed man was very likely completely innocent. More than that, Beales believed Armstrong had been framed. His book looked at every bit of "accepted history" about Armstrong and his alleged crimes, and systematically refuted them.
First of all, there was the matter of Katharine Armstrong's second will, which has often been described as something orchestrated by her husband before he carried out his plans to murder her. In truth, as early as 1919 Katherine herself had expressed to relatives her fears that the will she had made out in 1917--when Herbert was away serving in the war--was no longer satisfactory. She explained to her sister that the will had not left enough to her husband, and now that he was safely back home, it needed to be revised. She wanted to make sure that if anything happened to her, he would have enough money to raise their children. While her 1920 will may have been rather informal, no one was able to prove there was anything irregular about it. In any case, Herbert had no need for Katharine's money. Before her death, his bank accounts were in credit, and his client list had been steadily increasing. At the time of his arrest, Katharine's personal income was completely untouched by him.
As for the secondary murder motive attributed to the Major--the "other woman"--a closer look at the truth casts doubt on that as well. His relationship with Marion Gale--who had also been a friend of Mrs. Armstrong's--was perfectly respectable. She was a pleasant middle-aged lady who, he hoped, might provide a motherly presence for his children (the youngest of whom was only five when Katharine died,) and amiable companionship for himself. His motives in wooing Mrs. Gale appeared to have stemmed from practicality, rather than passion.
The fact that Armstrong kept arsenic in the house is not nearly as damning as it would seem to modern sensibilities. For years past, he had, for reasons of economy, made homemade weed-killer, using a recipe clipped from a magazine. Among gardeners of his day, this practice--as well as the little device he used to poison individual dandelions--was extremely common.
There is even a possibility that Katharine's long history of illness had nothing to do with poison. Beales notes that her symptoms--which had been steadily worsening for years, including when Herbert was away during the war--did not fit the classic symptoms of arsenic. They did, however, precisely tally with a diagnosis of Addison's disease, an ailment that, unfortunately, did not seem to have occurred to her incompetent, and later duplicitous, doctor.
Key to Armstrong's conviction was the claim by the medical experts that Katharine died as the result of taking arsenic within 24 hours of her death. However, the medical literature quoted by Beales proves that this was an overly dogmatic declaration. To make a long story short, Beales argued that nearly a year after her death, it would be impossible to say with certainty how much arsenic Katharine may have taken and when. (Complicating the issue is the fact that she took medicines and homeopathic remedies containing various poisons.) Beales concluded: "Katharine could have taken the arsenic from the study cupboard on 16 February accidentally, believing it to be something other than arsenic. She could have removed some of it and continued to take it during her final illness. She could have taken it intending to take her own life. [Note: Katharine had, during her last months, often spoken of suicide.] Equally, Armstrong could have given it to her. However, there was no evidence that he did...No man should be condemned in this way. There must be proof of guilt and there was no such proof."
It is when Beales turns his attention to Oswald Martin and his chemist father-in-law that the story takes a dark conspiratorial turn. Contrary to "accepted history," Beales asserts that Armstrong had no motive to want Martin dead. Rather, Martin's illness was "a potential nightmare" for him. The Major had finally received the necessary paperwork to allow the disputed land sale to be completed on time, and with Martin incapacitated, there was the danger of something going wrong with the contracts. (Also, contrary to Fred Davies' assertions that Armstrong was "jealous" of Martin's practice, Martin was not taking clients away from Armstrong. If anything, it was the reverse.)
There is reason to believe that the famous tea party between Armstrong and Martin--"excuse fingers," and such--was not what conventional wisdom would have us believe. Martin stated that Armstrong had handed him a scone covered with (presumably arsenic-laced) butter. However, it was established that the scones were all unbuttered. Armstrong himself denied ever handing Martin anything to eat. His story was that Martin was free to help himself from the tea tray. Martin did not become ill until hours after tea, and after he had eaten a hearty meal at home. Beales argued that if Armstrong had poisoned him at tea, Martin would have shown symptoms much earlier. It would also have been a remarkably stupid way to poison someone. What if Martin had suddenly taken ill in Armstrong's home, immediately after eating food provided by his rival? How would Armstrong explain that? Finally, Beales noted that Martin's symptoms, like Katharine's, were not characteristic of a large dose of arsenic, particularly since the solicitor had completely recovered within 24 hours. It could well have been, as Martin's doctor had originally believed, gastric flu.
The box of chocolates sent to the Martins on September 20, 1921 was, in Beales' words, "an enigma." Martin himself testified that he and his wife had eaten a couple of pieces with no bad effects. Apparently at least one other guest at the dinner party had taken some, too, without becoming sick. Only two of the surviving chocolates were found to be poisoned, and that had been done in a laughably crude manner. A large hole had been gouged in the bottom of these chocolates, with a clump of white arsenic messily pushed inside. There had been no effort to even close the hole with more chocolate. It was as if someone wanted the arsenic to be noticed.
Beales believed that someone did: Fred Davies. Davies apparently disliked Armstrong and had taken to voicing dark suspicions about Katharine's death. He was also the first to propose that the chocolates had been poisoned--just as he had been the first to assert that Martin had been poisoned at the tea party. Beales pointed to the interesting fact that Davies had warned the Martins about "anonymous gifts sent through the post such as chocolates"--before anyone had told him they had received such a present. Davies took possession of the remaining chocolates, keeping them for a day before handing them to the doctor for examination. It was only then that it was found that two candies were adulterated. It was Davies who had insisted that Martin's urine be analyzed for poison--even though the doctor was convinced Martin was suffering from an innocent illness. It was Davies who provided the bottle for Martin's urine sample and then sent it and the chocolates off for analysis. Was Beales correct in his belief that Davies, in his eagerness to convince everyone that Armstrong had poisoned Martin (which would lend credibility to his claims that the Major had fatally poisoned his wife) tampered with both the chocolates and the urine sample? (In regards to the urine sample, Beales also notes that during Martin's illness, he had been dosed with bismuth, which contains arsenic. That alone could explain the trace amounts of arsenic in Martin's urine. As a side note, Katharine's autopsy revealed traces of bismuth in her intestine.)
No one was ever able to connect Armstrong with those chocolates. The brand was unavailable in Hay. The serial numbers on the box established where and when the chocolates were boxed. They came from a factory some distance away. Armstrong had not left Hay during the period when those chocolates were manufactured and mailed. As was the case with the tea party, poisoned chocolates would be an incredibly bungling way for Armstrong to poison Martin. How could he be sure his intended victim would eat them, particularly since only a fraction of the candies had been tampered with?
In short, all the evidence that Armstrong poisoned Oswald Martin was either astonishingly feeble or decidedly dodgy. And yet, this was used as vital proof that the accused had murdered his wife. The twin charges against Armstrong validated each other: How do we know Armstrong killed his wife? Because he poisoned Oswald Martin. How do we know Armstrong poisoned Oswald Martin? Because he killed his wife!
Beales convincingly argues that Armstrong did not receive a fair trial. His counsel, Sir Henry Curtis Bennett, put up a startlingly lackadaisical defense, failing to take advantage of the multitude of weaknesses and errors in the prosecution's case, and doing little to promote his client's innocence, other than his diffident suggestion that Mrs. Armstrong had committed suicide. Bennett did not even call any character witnesses, allowing the unfounded slurs made against his client--that Armstrong had syphilis and spent his brief widowerhood in pursuit of hedonistic pleasures--to go largely unchallenged. The advocate for the Crown, Sir Ernest Pollock, conducted a prosecution that in Beales' opinion, "bordered on the unethical."
Beales made a strong case that the crucial evidence of Oswald Martin should never have been admitted. English law normally protects defendants from the introduction of other offences committed or allegedly committed by them. Beales noted that as a result of Martin's testimony, "the jurors were bound to be prejudiced against [Armstrong,] because if they accepted that he had in fact tried to poison Martin, they had to be predisposed to believe that he had administered arsenic to his wife. In effect, this meant that Armstrong had to prove his innocence, not that the prosecution had to prove his guilt, and the basic law of evidence had been turned on its head."
However, nothing about the trial was more biased against the defendant than the judge. Lord Justice Darling had a reputation as a "hanging judge" that was more than justified in his handling of the Armstrong tribunal. Before the trial had even begun, Darling was convinced of Armstrong's guilt, and he set out to do everything in his power to send the accused man to the gallows. He took every opportunity to boost the prosecution's case and disparage the defense. And as for his summing-up to the jury, Beales commented that "in the annals of crime" it would be difficult to find a judge's summation that was "more perverse and damaging to any prisoner." Beales believed that if Armstrong's conviction had been appealed to the House of Lords, the admission of Martin's evidence would alone have assured that the verdict would be overturned. However, only the attorney general could grant permission for this appeal. And the attorney general was...Sir Ernest Pollock, the man who had just won a triumphant victory over the condemned man. It comes as little surprise that he refused the appeal.
The last chance to save Armstrong's life was gone, and he was hanged on May 31, 1922. He steadfastly denied his guilt to the end. According to Beales, many people in Hay believed that Fred Davies had been instrumental in sending an innocent and well-liked man to the gallows, and they never forgave him for it. He was essentially driven out of town soon after Armstrong's execution. Oswald Martin left Hay as well. Martin had been crippled during the war, and the lingering effects of his injuries, coupled with his unpleasant experiences during the Armstrong case, left him broken in body and spirit. He died not long afterwards.
"The Hay Poisoner" makes a plausible case that Fred Davies framed Armstrong for the attempted murder of Oswald Martin, and successfully reclassifies Katharine Armstrong's death as an unsolved mystery. The Major may indeed have poisoned his wife: he had means and opportunity, if no evident motive. However, there is a haunting possibility that he did not.
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