On the gusty, rain-soaked evening of January 14, 1905, Jane Lathrop Stanford prepared for bed in her mansion on San Francisco’s Nob Hill. The 76-year-old widow of the railroad baron Leland Stanford lived alone in the dark, 50-room Italianate palace, tended by servants. Suffering from a bad cold, Jane drank from a bottle of Poland Spring water before retiring and found it strangely bitter. Knowing she’d made some enemies and fearing for her life, she stuck a finger down her throat and forced herself to throw up. She then called her private secretary, Bertha Berner, and her maid, who insisted she drink four or five glasses of warm water to induce further vomiting.
The spring water had been spiked with rat poison. “I am startled and even horrified that any human beings feel that they have been injured to such an extent as to desire to revenge themselves,” Jane wrote to a friend soon after. But as one of California’s richest women and the primary benefactor of Stanford University, she had recently threatened the livelihood and reputation of a formidable man. The poisoning attempt forced her to confront the fact that someone wanted her dead.
Fleeing California for her safety, she boarded a steamship for Hawaii. She stayed at the Moana Hotel—the first grand resort to be built in Waikiki, then a quiet wetlands area with coconut groves, taro fields, and fishponds once reserved for Hawaiian royalty. She filled her days with outings and her evenings with sunsets and soothing Hawaiian music.
On February 28, 1905, after a light meal and a walk on the pier, Jane retired to her bedroom. Berner, who was staying in a room across the hall with the maid, had laid out a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda. Jane added the white powder to a glass of water that she drank before bed to aid her digestion. Two hours later, at around 11:15 p.m., she called out for help. When Berner and the maid rushed to their employer’s room, they witnessed a terrifying sight. Jane was clinging to the doorframe, barely able to stand. Within minutes, her body writhed in contortions. Her fists clenched, her jaw tightened, and her legs splayed open. Jane knew that she had been poisoned—for a second time.
“This is a horrible death to die!” she cried.
Shortly before midnight, one of the United States’ leading philanthropists was dead.
MORE THAN A CENTURY LATER, the
