Mr Johnson’s Journal by Tony Redcliffe

When I began writing, I had no idea what would befall me . . .

JANUARY 9, 1881. I have decided for the first time in my forty-nine years to keep a diary. No. That would not be correct. Not a diary. It shall be more of a journal, since I have no intention of keeping a daily account of the rather quiet life of a single middle-aged gentleman. Mutton chop for breakfast – that kind of thing. Nonsense!

No, I shall only record matters of some importance or interest, if there should be any. Which I doubt.

January 15.

On arriving home from the bank I found an envelope on the mat addressed to Arnold Johnson Esq. The envelope contained an invitation. Mr & Mrs William Weaver request the pleasure of the company of Mr Johnson at

dinner at 8 p.m. on Friday, January 18. RSVP to 22 Crompton Road.

This is a surprise. I have only a casual acquaintance with Weaver. We see each other on the omnibus going into the city and exchange pleasantries.

I suspect that they have been let down by one of their intended guests and are anxious to balance the table, so to speak.

I intend this year to be more sociable, so I shall accept. If nothing else I might get a decent dinner and a glass or two of wine.

January 19.

The meal was acceptable. Oysters, mock turtle soup, a chicken pie, mutton chops and a treacle tart. Weaver gave me beer, which I find rather gassy, but later gave generous measures of a rather fine port wine.

Mrs Weaver was an attentive hostess. There was a Mr and Mrs Cyril Spark – he being Weaver’s superior at the Anglo-indian Tea Company, and in whose honour I presumed the dinner was arranged, to further Weaver’s advancement in the company.

I was seated next to a widowed lady, Mrs Florence Wentworth.

Mrs Wentworth had only been widowed some six months, it seemed, and still wore widow’s weeds, but she had a smiling, open countenance and was a comely lady. I would not place her much above middle years.

I am no lady’s man, but Mrs Wentworth and I quite hit it off, as they say.

When she found out I was a bank clerk she wanted to know all about it. I’ve never known anyone take such interest in what most regard as a dull occupation.

Perhaps the port made me feel quite ebullient, but at the end of the evening I declared that Mr and Mrs Weaver – William and Mary – had treated us royally. I do not know if everyone understood my little joke.

January 23.

I was busy checking a ledger when young Hoskins came to tell me there was a lady at the front desk asking for me by name, then he winked.

I was surprised and pleased to see Mrs Florence Wentworth. She hoped she was not being too presumptuous, but she had been so impressed by my banking expertise that she wished to transfer her account from her present bank to ours.

Could I effect the transfer? Could we perhaps take tea together one afternoon to have some advice on investments?

I heard a giggle behind me.

When Mrs Wentworth had gone I set Hoskins to work on counting the farthing drawer.

February 19.

Life has been quite uneventful, although I have seen Mrs Wentworth on a number of occasions. She is anxious to seek my opinion on any number of matters.

It seems that her late husband, Ralph, died quite suddenly after only a few months of marriage. She bears the loss bravely, although there is the occasional tear which she dabs away daintily with a lace handkerchief.

March 8.

Mrs Wentworth has invited me to supper tomorrow at the rented accommodation where she lives. I have accepted.

March 10.

I am engaged to be married. I am still not quite sure how. People talk of popping the question and it seems that’s

rather what happened. The words just seemed to pop out of my mouth like a cork out of a bottle.

I was surprised I was the only guest, but it was a fine supper. We started with oysters with a good Irish stout, which she had bought fresh in a jug from the Horse and Jockey opposite. We finished with candied almonds and a very fine brandy.

I can remember thinking that this was very comfortable. This would suit. So Florence, with much fluttering and sighing, accepted my proposal. So there we are.

April 5.

We were wed on the first of this month, then had two days at a small hotel in Clacton. Weaver and his wife stood for us and joined us for a jolly wedding breakfast at the Brunswick Hotel with baked salmon, a bottle of fizz and a bride cake.

May 20.

I am, I suppose, an old married man. We are settled in my house at 13 Crompton Road and Florence has arranged it to her taste. My military prints have been replaced by paintings of puppies and kittens. But, as Florence says, my prints are there in a box in the attic for me to look at whenever I choose.

Florence has discouraged me from discussing the business of the bank too much in the evening, since she believes the onerous burden of my work could play too much on my mind and disturb the equanimity of the evening.

June 9.

We have engaged a maid – a girl who comes in each day to do the cleaning, washing, ironing and so on. Florence was finding these mundane tasks too much and pointed out that having a maid befits our social status.

I suggested that the person engaged should do the cooking also, but Florence insisted that she would continue to cook, although I must admit that her culinary skills are not exceptional.

June 14.

Florence had suggested that it would be prudent if we took out a life insurance policy. She was quite right, of course.

A company called the Safe And Sound Assurance Company had been recommended to her, and this evening a Mr Slipper called and for a reasonable premium insured my life for £100.

As Mr Slipper was leaving, I overheard him say, “There we are, Florence, all done and dusted.” This disturbed me. I do not think it proper for a man to address a married lady by her first name.

June 24.

I had been feeling rather tired and lethargic these last few days and occasionally nauseous, especially in the evenings, which is not like me.

On my way home this evening I called in at Duffy’s Pharmacy for some Carter’s Little Liver Pills and to see if I could get a tonic.

Duffy himself served me and whilst he was concocting his tonic he suddenly asked me, “How are the rats?”

I looked at him blankly. “The rats?” I repeated. “Yes,” he said. “When your good lady was in about a week ago, she mentioned that she’d seen some on top of your shed. She bought a bottle of arsenic. That should do the trick, I said. A few drops in a saucer of milk and hey presto.”

The curious thing is, we don’t have a shed.

June 29.

A disturbing incident occurred today. I had taken a stroll in the park to try to shake off my lethargy and was seated on a park bench when someone called, “Johnson! Arnold!”

I looked up. It was Samuel Carter. I hadn’t seen him for about two years. We shook hands and he joined me on the bench.

“Actually, Arnold,” he began, “I saw you a few weeks ago but I was on the other side of the road. You were with Mrs Bretherton.”

“Mrs Bretherton?” I said. “I don’t know a Mrs Bretherton.”

“Lady had a brown hat. Red rose on the side,” Carter said.

I shook my head. “That was my wife. And before our marriage she was a Mrs Wentworth. You’ve got it wrong, Sam.”

“No,” he insisted. “Bretherton. Florence Bretherton. She was married to Toby Bretherton, poor chap. We played bowls together. Died of a sudden heart attack one evening. Was scarcely fifty. I went to the funeral.”

July 3.

I have found the arsenic. I found it in the scullery behind a tin of Brasso.

A third of the liquid was gone. I looked up arsenic in my World Encyclopaedia – an odourless, colourless, tasteless poison. A large dose induces a heart attack.

I am keeping this journal locked in my desk drawer. What to do?

July 6.

I must record the events of yesterday, difficult though it is.

Whilst Florence was laying the table for our evening meal, I slipped into the scullery. The bottle was still there, lurking behind the Brasso, but it was now almost empty.

When I went into the dining-room the table was laid.

“I’ll fetch the pot of stew,” Florence said.

If we were eating from the same pot that was safe. I looked at the two glasses of water. Odourless, colourless, tasteless.

On impulse I switched the two glasses before Florence sailed in with the stew. During the course of the meal I drank the water. Florence drank hers.

After the meal I told Florence that I would trot down to the vintner’s for a bottle of sherry. I thought a glass or two of fortified wine might do me good.

When I returned Florence was in the armchair by the window. I thought she was asleep, but she was dead.

July 8.

I have been arrested.

July 14.

I find it ironic and annoying that I was arrested on suspicion of murdering the woman who was intent on murdering me, and as far as I’m concerned Florence died by her own hand.

Following an autopsy, a fatal dose of arsenic was found in Florence’s body. Fortunately, Duffy could tell the police that it was she who had bought the poison.

At my insistence the police eventually found that Mr Toby Bretherton and Mr Ralph Wentworth had both left insurance with the Safe And Sound Assurance Company for substantial sums with their widow as the sole beneficiary. Their exhumations yielded evidence of arsenic in their bodies.

The police concluded that Florence had made a simple but deadly mistake with the two glasses of water and how lucky I was to be alive. I said nothing.

August 2.

My military prints are back on the wall. Today I received a cheque for £100 from the Safe And Sound Assurance Company, since I deemed it prudent to insure Florence’s life at the same time as mine, and since the Coroner’s Court gave Florence’s death as Death By Misadventure. September 13. Today I received another invitation from the Weavers to a dinner party. I shall send a polite but firm refusal. n