Don't Try This At Home. Or anywhere else

            I’ve been thinking about poisons recently.  Not, you understand, for personal use, but professionally, so to speak.  I remember ages ago now, at the long defunct Dead On Deansgate crime writing conference, hearing four forensic scientists speak on a panel.   One and all, they were dismissive about the idea of someone being bumped off in modern times by poison. “In thirty years,” stated one scientist dismissively, “I’ve never seen a single case of deliberate poisoning.”    I’d never thought there could be fashions in murder, but there obviously are. Poisoning is soooo last century. It’s so outdated, arsenic might as well be the new beige.

            And yet...  I dunno, but I’d think I’d like the aforesaid F.S,’s to at least bear the possibility in mind when confronted with the mortal remains. 

            You can’t nip into your local branch of Boots and ask for poison, admittedly.  In 1861, the Offences Against The Person act was passed which deals with poisoning. It covers the possibilities of causing death, grievous bodily harm or even – I like this – annoyance.

            Yep, I’d be annoyed.  I’d as far as to say I’d be downright tetchy, if not a little vexed.

            Poisoning was certainly a possibility that medical practitioners had to bear in mind in years gone by. The Ancient Greeks and Romans seemed never happier amongst the deadly doses, favouring a natural way of causing unnatural death.  Claudius, for instance, was done in with mushrooms (it was Mrs Claudius who did the deed) but hemlock, belladonna. laburnum and foxgloves were all pressed into service.

            Perhaps the go-to brew of choice as a relative-ridder, however, was aconite.  So prevalent was its use that the Emperor Trajan banned its cultivation.

Aconite is a beautiful plant, which can be bought readily in garden centres and online.  It’s other names are monkshood  and (I have to admit, I think this sounds cool) wolfsbane.  Apparently it used to be used against wolves and Severus Snape includes it in the potion he whips up to prevent Remus Lupin succumbing to the full moon and turning into a werewolf.  It’s deadly.  Seriously, it’s acutely poisonous and not something I’d want growing in my garden. In 1856, two Catholic clergymen, Fr James Gordon and Fr Angus MacKenzie Eskdale died in Dingwall, Scotland, after eating an aconite sauce.  The housekeeper had used the bulbs, thinking they were horseradish. In 1882, a Dr Lamson slipped an inconvenient relative a slice of Dundee cake with aconite.  Andre Noble, the Canadian actor, died after mistaking aconite for an edible plant.  More worryingly – and bang up to date – if you put monkshood seeds into Google you’ll come across the chilling tale of someone who is feeling very ill after eating a plate of leftovers from the fridge.  They found an empty packet of aconite seeds...