by Roy Lewis
‘Mrs Hilliard! How delightful to see you again!’
She seemed a little flustered, even unnerved. Her glance held mine but a certain anxiety seemed to flicker in her eyes. Her figure had thickened somewhat, naturally enough, but she still boasted a fine bosom, and remained an attractive, bold-eyed, wealthy woman. She was protecting her features with a parasol, but her colour was high, and rising. For a moment, the advice from Garibaldi surged from the back of my mind but it receded again when I realized that the lady was not alone. Just behind her stood a middle-aged, stiff-backed gentleman with military moustache, supercilious, hooded eyes, a Wellingtonian nose and resplendent Hussar uniform, albeit somewhat faded in parts.
Marianne Hilliard hesitated, that magnificent bosom heaving unnervingly. ‘I did not think to meet you here in Paris! I have heard of your travels, read in The Times your stirring account of your recent experiences on campaign with Garibaldi. So exciting!’ The officer behind her sniffed, shuffled impatiently and she hesitated, and there was that shadow in her eyes again. ‘But I am remiss . . . may I introduce you to Colonel Augustus Wheatley?’
The military man edged forward to stand closer behind her, in an almost proprietary fashion, inclined his head slightly, and tugged at his drooping moustache. ‘Ah, yes. Mr James. Your name is well known. Renowned lawyer. Haw! Politician. Haw! And now I understand you have experienced the acrid, bitter odours of the battlefield.’
There was a supercilious, sneering, slightly mocking edge to his words. I stiffened. ‘I was at Caserta, certainly.’
‘And did that officer shoot those unfortunate deserters as you advised?’ he asked coolly.
‘I do not know. The last I saw of them, they were being imprisoned in a barracks.’ I turned away from him dismissively. ‘But Mrs Hilliard, it’s such a—’
‘And I believe you also visited the ammoniac cells of the Prefettura and the Castle of St Elmo,’ Wheatley continued aggressively. ‘In emulation of Mr Gladstone twenty years ago.’
I bridled at his sneering tone. ‘It was not a matter of aping Mr Gladstone. I felt I should learn personally about the reeking abomination of the Neapolitan prisons, in order to make such conditions known to my colleagues in Parliament!’
Marianne was clearly aware of the competitive tension rising between us. She intervened quickly. ‘I am now residing at Boulogne . . . as is Colonel Wheatley. We are about to make our return there. Colonel Wheatley kindly agreed to escort me on my visit to Paris on business. . . .’ She seemed confused, a little disoriented, almost shaky. ‘And we must now take our congé, I fear. I hope all goes well with you and your family. Perhaps we shall meet again soon, in London, or. . . .’
Her words tailed away. The Colonel’s cold eyes were unfriendly; he bowed stiffly and took her by the elbow. Possessively. And yet I noted that she shrugged off his hand as they moved away into the colourful, swirling scene of the pavements of the Champs Elysées.
I left for London next morning.
I arrived at my chambers in Inner Temple Lane late at night. I was tired after my journey and there was a pile of bills, letters and red-taped briefs awaiting me. I ignored them, poured myself a stiff brandy and water, and sat before the fire, thinking back over my adventures in Italy . . . and the meeting with Marianne Hilliard. Soon, I drifted off to sleep there in the chair. . . .
At dawn, I returned to my rented house in Berkeley Square. The first letter I picked up at breakfast gave me a jolt. It was yet another missive from Mr Tallents, legal adviser to the Earl of Yarborough. This time, all pretence at politeness was gone: its tone could be regarded as nothing less than threatening.
2
The Long Vacation was over.
It was a busy autumn for me. The briefs still flooded in from my attorney friend Fryer: I had been forced to allow him to retain many of my fees to balance against the £20,000 he had advanced me by way of loans so I had to turn to others for further advances – at exorbitant rates – to maintain my lifestyle. I dined out at country houses, relating stories of my Garibaldian adventures; I gave a lecture about my experiences at the Marylebone Institute, kept up my attendances in the House and retained the limelight politically by publishing my October correspondence with Count Cavour. And I was still winning cases for delighted clients at all levels of society: clergymen addicted to night-house floggings, pretty horse-breakers seeking compensation from aristocratic lovers, amorous grocers, incontinent admirals and cuckolded magistrates.
But I was becoming more and more harassed.
Young Lord Worsley I could handle. I met him one evening at Brookes’. He was engaged as usual at the tables, his slim young form lolling casually in front of a pile of chips. He hailed me enthusiastically, and told me how pleased he was to see me back from Italy, hale and sound in wind and limb. He’d read my letters to The Times – he’d even kept cuttings of them in his pocket to boast of his friendship with me and bask in the reflected glory! I managed to draw him away from the attractions of chicken hazard to a quiet corner, a table where we were served expensive champagne – at his expense, of course.
‘I wanted a word, Worsley,’ I began as we sipped the champagne. ‘I’ve received several missives from your father’s attorney, Mr Tallents.’
The young man sighed, twitched his fashionably luxurious moustache, behind which he still looked absurdly young, and shook his head. ‘Dammit, I explained everything to the old man, you know, and he seemed satisfied, but then that damned solicitor advised him, requested that he should be given the task of checking my story . . . and he’s now been dunning you, hey?’
‘His tone has become quite threatening,’
Lord Worsley swore colourfully: I had clearly introduced him to some unsavoury people from whom he had picked up bad habits. ‘Tallents, why can’t he leave a fellow alone? I’ll have another word with the old man. I mean, there’s no problem, is there? You’re up to date with the payment of interest on all the due bills, ain’t you?’
Now you know, I have to make an admission about this indebtedness. The fact is, it had all started when young Worsley commenced hanging onto my coat-tails during my evening peregrinations around the West End, tagging along like a wide-eyed, adoring sheep. I was able to introduce him to the pleasures of the Haymarket whores, the gaming tables of St James’ and also my Cock and Hen Club at the Nunnery, where he became quite a favourite; my bored, middle-aged wives enjoyed the taste of innocent young blood, if you know what I mean. I tell you, some of those aristocratic ladies could be voracious when away from their indifferent husbands – who were off whoring elsewhere. And young Worsley at seventeen demonstrated a real talent for dissipation: he gave evidence of it when I introduced him to Valerie Langdon, who later married Sir Henry Meux, and Bella Bolton – later Lady Clancarty. Interesting thing, that: many of my St John’s Wood acquaintances married into the aristocracy in spite of their whoring backgrounds: Rosie Wilson married Lord Verner, as I recall, there was Connie Gilchrist who went off with the Earl of Orkney, and Kate Cook who I imagine laid aside her whips when she married the Earl of Euston. Or maybe not. . . .
What? Ah, yes, I’m wandering from the point again.
Lord Worsley. The fact was, he was an innocent in matters of finance. Money ran through his fingers. And he had no idea where to find tin when he was skinned. As far as I was concerned, the first step was taken when he lost heavily at the tables and was fearful of his father, the Earl, finding out. So he borrowed some money against my signature; he was able to redeem the note when it fell due. But then I made the fatal mistake of asking him to return the favour by putting his signature to one of my outstanding bills. And that’s how it started. It snowballed, in fact. He was so complaisant, you see! It was easier to persuade him to sign my bills than to seek out new moneylenders or signatories. And life was such a whirl – my court hearings, sittings of Parliament, rushing down to Brighton to carry out my duties as Recorder, dinners, parties at country houses, whoring in the Haymarket, entertaining at the Nu
nnery, gambling at Brookes’ – I have to admit I lost track of where I was financially. My attorney friend Fryer had by then taken the lease of a house for me in Berkeley Square, and he was always happy to discount my bills as my prospect of becoming a Law Officer of the Crown came nearer . . . but I simply didn’t keep track!
And there were so many other demands on my time. Not least from the persistent, stubborn, insistent Colonel Lothian Dickson. In one sense, it was he who started the landslide that finally overwhelmed me that autumn – and it wasn’t even a matter of calling upon my professional services!
You see, Lothian Sheffield Dickson had taken it upon himself, along with my friend Sir James Duke, to support me in my bid to become Member of Parliament for Marylebone. Dickson wasn’t a politician, of course: he had entered the army in 1825 and saw service in India, Spain and South Africa, but in about 1846 the Duke of Wellington had appointed him Major of the 2nd Tower Hamlets Militia. He became their commanding officer as Lieutenant Colonel some years later. And began to meddle in politics.
To be honest, I never really liked Dickson: he was self-important, dogged, stubborn and, I believe, a strict disciplinarian, an attitude which did not endear him to the officers under his command. Quite why he got involved in my political campaigns I can’t say: public duty, he once explained to me with a growl. And when he came to see me . . . when was it . . . the previous year? Anyway, he came to me aggrieved, with a story The Times later described as a ‘pretty kettle of fish’.
His lean, be-whiskered features were twisted in distaste as he sat facing me in my chambers in Inner Temple Lane. ‘My complaint concerns that notorious whoremaster the Earl of Wilton,’ he snarled.
I raised my eyebrows. I was aware the sexagenarian Lord Wilton was his commanding officer. I also knew the description of the Earl was accurate: there were few ladies of the night in London he hadn’t sampled.
‘I was encamped with the Regiment at Woolwich,’ Dickson went on, ‘when the Earl arrived as commanding officer. He had with him a young officer, Ensign Beales, and a lady he introduced as the ensign’s sister. Wilton asked me to look after Beales, while he himself entertained the young lady.’
Dickson glowered at me. ‘He kept the parade waiting thirty minutes while he remained in an adjoining hut with Miss Beales. It was only later I learned the young woman was not the ensign’s sister. Her real name was Caroline Cooke.’
I leaned back in my chair, barely managing to conceal my smile. Caroline Cooke. . . . I’d come across her – if you’ll excuse the expression – more than a few times in the Burlington Arcade, the noted scene for West End shopping and sex. She was a buxom young woman, never suffocated by her underclothes, if you know what I mean, and before Lord Wilton took up with her she had ridden a number of other aristocratic horses under different aliases. In the clubs she was well known as Nellie, or Lily Cooke. At Long’s Hotel in Bond Street she kept an ‘entertaining’ room under the name of Mrs Murray. At No. 2 Cleveland Gardens she went by the name of Mrs Turner: that particular residence had an accommodating trapdoor communication, as I recall, enabling a client to move unobserved from boudoir to back parlour. Yes, I knew a great deal about Caroline Cooke.
‘Moreover,’ Colonel Dickson complained bitterly, ‘Lord Wilton then inspected the Regiment with this woman on his arm! He visited the mess with her! I must admit I did not think much of it at the time, until some months later I received a letter from Lord Wilton, complaining that his young protégé Beales was being chaffed about his so-called sister! Wilton demanded I stop the badinage, or he would sue for defamation!’
I hesitated. Lothian Dickson’s sallow cheeks had reddened with fury. ‘So what did you do?’
‘I warned the officers under my command, and I transferred Beales out of the Regiment! But that merely served to anger Wilton more. He seemed to think I was behind the gossip. So he trumped up some charges over officer disaffection and unpaid tradesmen and demanded I resign.’
‘You did not, of course,’
‘I refused. After which I had an unsatisfactory interview with the Field Marshal.’
Viscount Combermere. The doddery veteran of Waterloo, old, deaf, almost senile. I could guess what had been the result.
‘The Field Marshal supported Lord Wilton,’ Dickson snorted indignantly. ‘I have lost my commission.’
‘And now. . . ?’
‘I want you to act for me against Lord Wilton.’
I should have had the good sense to refuse, since I knew Lord Wilton well, but the brief would bring about a considerable sensation, I guessed . . . and I was always one for creating a squawking among the aristocratic henhouses!
Dickson v Earl of Wilton came on at the Court of Queen’s Bench. Lord Campbell presided; the Attorney General appeared for Lord Wilton. And I had a resounding success. I reduced all Wilton’s witnesses to petulancy and anger, ridiculed cruelly the ninety-year-old Lord Combermere, playing on his deafness and faulty memory, and even got the Duke of Cambridge, Commander-in-Chief of the Army to admit at one stage: ‘I am not much acquainted with militia matters!’
I spoke to the jury for three hours. They were two hours reaching a verdict. They awarded Colonel Dickson £5 for libel and £200 for slanders issued by Lord Wilton. My work, I thought, was done.
Lothian Dickson thought otherwise, because in spite of our courtroom success, he was not thereafter reinstated in the army as he had expected. Then he discovered the true identity of ‘Miss Beales’. He came storming around to my chambers and I was persuaded to continue to represent him.
I have to admit I agreed partly because he had offered me financial support in my bid for Marylebone, and I was finally able to force the Secretary of War to set up a Court of Inquiry. Dickson had provided me with further evidence, a bombshell in fact: Wilton had not only insulted the army in squiring the prostitute Caroline Cooke at the parade in Woolwich; he had also arranged for the young whore to attend the Queen’s Ball at the Hanover Square Rooms. She had been admitted by way of a voucher supplied by the Marchioness of Westminster – on the basis of a false representation made by Caroline’s lover, the besotted Lord Wilton. A prostitute, in the presence of the Queen!
You can imagine how London buzzed when rumours of the Court of Inquiry began to circulate. The hearing was to take place . . . when was it? Ah, yes, I recall, it was due to hear witnesses on 4 June 1859.
And I was then placed in an embarrassing position.
I received an invitation to visit Lord Wilton at his town house in Grosvenor Square. He explained to me that if the inquiry went ahead, and matters were made public, the Queen would be very upset. He suggested he was looking for a skilful negotiator who could persuade Dickson to drop the whole matter. And he asked me about my financial affairs, being aware that Marylebone was the most expensive seat in England.
They were in a mess, of course. I had several substantial bills falling due that week so Wilton’s proposal came as welcome as a spring shower.
‘Look here, James, we can’t have Colonel Dickson braying at the Court of Inquiry in this manner. He’s blackmailing me, and the Duke of Cambridge, trying to reinstate himself. That’s what it is: blackmail! The Queen will be furious if these nasty stories get out.’
‘I have already advised him that I think his course is unwise,’ I remarked.
‘Well, he’s got to be stopped! James, I want you to act for me, persuade him to back away from these allegations.’
‘I’m sorry, my lord, but I am already acting as his legal adviser—’
‘This isn’t a legal matter,’ Wilton blustered. ‘It’s a matter of conducting negotiations of a private nature! It should never have gone to court in the first instance: the man’s no gentleman!’ He took a large mouthful of brandy, swirled it around his tongue as he observed me, a cunning glint in his eye. He stroked his long, greying moustache reflectively. ‘We were talking about your financial affairs. Don’t beat about the bush, James. I hear you’re embarrassed.’
I shrugged. ‘These things have a way of turning out well enough,’ I replied carefully.
‘Let’s have them do that – turn out well, I mean. James, I’m prepared to cover your present embarrassments. On condition you persuade Dickson to call off the inquiry.’
‘I’m not sure . . .’
‘Be sure! Do this for me and I’ll call off your creditors, hold your paper until you can relieve your financial affairs at some distant time – but only if you persuade Dickson to walk away from that damned Court of Inquiry!’
Well, the offer was too tempting to refuse and I called Colonel Dickson to my chambers next day. He wasn’t a happy man. But in the end, when I pointed out that if the story came out in the Court of Inquiry the Queen would never allow him to re-enter the army, he finally gave in.
‘But there’s one condition,’ he snarled, tugging fiercely at his whiskers. ‘I’ll back away from the Court of Inquiry, but only on condition that Wilton admits in writing that he’s done wrong to me and also uses his influence with the Secretary of War to get me reinstated in the Tower Hamlets Militia.’
Well, when I went to see Lord Wilton you can imagine how he reacted: he prevaricated and argued, but he finally agreed to ‘use his best efforts’ in that respect. And once again I thought it was all over. But later, when I met Colonel Dickson at Westminster he glowered at me and stated he was displeased in that I seemed to be taking Lord Wilton’s part when Dickson had considered me his friend, but I could bear that. My debts were not called in, Lord Wilton was holding off my creditors and I could get on with my professional life, instead of being harassed over such private embarrassments. Unfortunately Wilton also held off ‘using his best efforts’ for Dickson.