Prescription: Murder! Volume 1: Authentic Cases From the Files of Alan Hynd by Noel Hynd, Alan Hynd, George Kaczender
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at Mrs. Sparling, the righteous farmer with the long black beard did something most unusual. He quit his work in the fields in the middle of the day and took to his bed. Pete, the eldest son, hustled over to Ubly to summon the doctor.
MacGregor drove down to the Sparling farm every morning and every night after that to minister to the patient, who seemed to have trouble keeping any food in his stomach. While Righteous John was in bed, the Sparling faun received a second visitor, a loud, belligerent little man of seventy, who lived near Ubly. He too was named John Sparling.
The visitor, however, was known as Old John. He was an uncle of Righteous John, a former State Senator and, in his earlier days, a renowned auctioneer. He was still a spry little character, and his vocal apparatus was mercilessly unimpaired, so that, when he spoke in his auctioneer’s voice, he could be heard practically in the next county.
On this day when he came to visit his nephew, after having heard he was seriously ill, the four boys were out in the fields, so Old John went right up to Righteous John’s bedroom. Righteous John was in no shape to receive a visitor, or even talk to one, since he was in a semi-conscious condition and practically on fire with fever.
Old John thereupon began a prowl of the house for Carrie Sparling. When, at last, he had looked everywhere for the lady except in her bedroom, he decided to try there.
Old John was used to barging through houses and opening doors without knocking—a carry-over from his auctioneer days—and so when he approached Mrs. Sparling’s bedroom he just turned the knob of the door and kept on going.
But the door was locked and Old John; moving too fast to stop, crashed into the door and shook himself up. When the door opened there stood the doctor and the farmer’s wife. Old John measured Mrs. Sparling and the doctor and walked away.
A few days later, Righteous John Sparling died. Old John was at the graveside. When the coffin was being lowered, he exploded.
“There’s somethin’ danged funny about why my nephew died!” he yelled.
“Danged funny! You all hear?”
Folks were in the habit of ignoring the old windbag, however. And they did again this day as they had in the past.
A few months after the head of the Sparling household had gone to his reward, MacGregor, looking to the future, decided it would be a good idea if the four boys took out some life insurance.
“But we’re all as healthy as can be,” said Pete, now the nominal head of the house.
“You never can tell by appearances,” said MacGregor. “Take your father. Look what happened to him.”
“You’ll do as the good doctor says,” said Mrs. Sparling. “He’s going to examine all of you for insurance policies and then we’re going to buy insurance.”
Conveniently, the doctor’s father, Alexander MacGregor, was an insurance agent in London, Ontario. The Doctor examined applicants for policies in his father’s company. A few weeks later, policies of $1,000 on each of the four boys with the Sun Life Association of Canada came across Lake Huron from the offices of Doctor MacGregor’s father.
It was a lovely night in the spring of the following year. The good doctor and his wife were spending an evening with their friends the Xenophon Boomhowers. Everybody was in good spirits except the doctor. He was depressed.
“What’s wrong, Doc?” asked Boomhower.
“It’s Pete Sparling.”
“Pete?” asked Boomhower, who knew the lad. “Why, he looks the picture of health. What’s the matter with him?”
“Acute pancreatitis.”
“Sounds serious. Exactly what is it?” The doctor reduced the ailment to layman’s language and indeed it was serious. At age twenty-five and at six feet two-hundred pounds, Peter should have been the very picture of Dairy State health. Instead, these days he was walking around the farm clutching his stomach. And, sure enough, Pete died shortly afterward, little more than a
MacGregor drove down to the Sparling farm every morning and every night after that to minister to the patient, who seemed to have trouble keeping any food in his stomach. While Righteous John was in bed, the Sparling faun received a second visitor, a loud, belligerent little man of seventy, who lived near Ubly. He too was named John Sparling.
The visitor, however, was known as Old John. He was an uncle of Righteous John, a former State Senator and, in his earlier days, a renowned auctioneer. He was still a spry little character, and his vocal apparatus was mercilessly unimpaired, so that, when he spoke in his auctioneer’s voice, he could be heard practically in the next county.
On this day when he came to visit his nephew, after having heard he was seriously ill, the four boys were out in the fields, so Old John went right up to Righteous John’s bedroom. Righteous John was in no shape to receive a visitor, or even talk to one, since he was in a semi-conscious condition and practically on fire with fever.
Old John thereupon began a prowl of the house for Carrie Sparling. When, at last, he had looked everywhere for the lady except in her bedroom, he decided to try there.
Old John was used to barging through houses and opening doors without knocking—a carry-over from his auctioneer days—and so when he approached Mrs. Sparling’s bedroom he just turned the knob of the door and kept on going.
But the door was locked and Old John; moving too fast to stop, crashed into the door and shook himself up. When the door opened there stood the doctor and the farmer’s wife. Old John measured Mrs. Sparling and the doctor and walked away.
A few days later, Righteous John Sparling died. Old John was at the graveside. When the coffin was being lowered, he exploded.
“There’s somethin’ danged funny about why my nephew died!” he yelled.
“Danged funny! You all hear?”
Folks were in the habit of ignoring the old windbag, however. And they did again this day as they had in the past.
A few months after the head of the Sparling household had gone to his reward, MacGregor, looking to the future, decided it would be a good idea if the four boys took out some life insurance.
“But we’re all as healthy as can be,” said Pete, now the nominal head of the house.
“You never can tell by appearances,” said MacGregor. “Take your father. Look what happened to him.”
“You’ll do as the good doctor says,” said Mrs. Sparling. “He’s going to examine all of you for insurance policies and then we’re going to buy insurance.”
Conveniently, the doctor’s father, Alexander MacGregor, was an insurance agent in London, Ontario. The Doctor examined applicants for policies in his father’s company. A few weeks later, policies of $1,000 on each of the four boys with the Sun Life Association of Canada came across Lake Huron from the offices of Doctor MacGregor’s father.
It was a lovely night in the spring of the following year. The good doctor and his wife were spending an evening with their friends the Xenophon Boomhowers. Everybody was in good spirits except the doctor. He was depressed.
“What’s wrong, Doc?” asked Boomhower.
“It’s Pete Sparling.”
“Pete?” asked Boomhower, who knew the lad. “Why, he looks the picture of health. What’s the matter with him?”
“Acute pancreatitis.”
“Sounds serious. Exactly what is it?” The doctor reduced the ailment to layman’s language and indeed it was serious. At age twenty-five and at six feet two-hundred pounds, Peter should have been the very picture of Dairy State health. Instead, these days he was walking around the farm clutching his stomach. And, sure enough, Pete died shortly afterward, little more than a
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