A Fugitive Englishman

by Roy Lewis

  So, a year later, when I returned from Italy and Garibaldi’s camp, there was Lothian Dickson on my doorstep again. Furious, whiskers bristling and mean-eyed.

  ‘Lord Wilton hasn’t shifted his mean arse,’ he growled. ‘He’s out of town, don’t respond to my demands that he keep to his side of the bargain. I’ll have no more of this, James. You can tell him that if I don’t hear from him within seven days I’ll publish the whole Caroline Cooke story for the world to pass judgment!’

  ‘That would be unwise—’

  ‘Take the message to your master. You’ve run with the hounds, James, now go back to the hare! I’d considered you my supporter but it’s clear now that you’ve deserted my camp for that of your aristocratic friend!’

  I was alarmed, but I was caught between two stubborn, unmoveable men. The upshot was that he received no reply from Wilton, he went ahead and published the whole story from his point of view – and no one gained from it. Wilton became a laughing stock; Dickson was deemed not to be a gentleman by publishing, and as for Edwin James QC, MP, gossip in the clubs began to swirl regarding the part I had played in the affair. Men were asking whose side had I really been on? Had I been behaving properly in the business?

  I tried to shrug it off but I have to admit that my reputation was somewhat dented. Again. But let me stress this, my boy: this whole sorry business concerned a private matter. I was being criticized, yes, but like the business of the Horsham election in ’48 I could not be accused on grounds of professional misbehaviour. So I knew I could ride out the storm.

  Except that an even bigger tempest was on the horizon. And in it rode the shade of that fraudster John Sadleir, whose supposed corpse I had identified in the Dead House with Dr Wakley, four years earlier.

  3

  Herbert Ingram always boasted that he was the son of a humble butcher, but over the course of the years Ingram himself had become a very wealthy man. He founded the Illustrated London News, you know, and it became a massive success, selling 300,000 copies a week. He used the newspaper to promote his candidacy for Boston, and he became MP for that constituency in 1856. But I tell you, my boy, acquired wealth did not improve his personality. He was arrogant, and coarse, both in manner and speech. He was a sexual predator – there was a hushed-up scandal about his regular and excessive attempts to seduce his own sister-in-law – and he was a man of bullying tendencies. But like all bullies he was also a coward: a coward, and a greedy fraudster.

  In spite of his considerable wealth, he could not resist shady dealings. So when the Irish banker and fellow MP John Sadleir approached him with a proposition that was likely to make them a considerable sum of money, Ingram swiftly agreed – even though it meant the swindling of another of our fellow Reform Club members, Vincent Scully MP.

  Sadleir owed Scully £9,000. He approached Scully and suggested that he, Sadleir, should buy the Castle Hyde estates in Ireland on Scully’s behalf at an agreed price of £19,000, sell them later through an intermediary in England – at an inflated figure – and Scully could retain the money owed him out of the profits. The intermediary was to be their mutual acquaintance, Herbert Ingram.

  Scully agreed the plan and discussed it with Ingram at the club. But when he heard the profit was likely to be only £600 he became wary and suggested that he should retain the property himself. Sadleir and Ingram told him it was too late to change the plan, since Ingram had already purchased the estates – and Ingram would now resell to Scully only for the inflated price of £28,000.

  I heard the full story from Scully when he came to my chambers for a discussion. He was disgusted by the whole business and had never spoken to Ingram since that time.

  ‘I’ve cut him regularly at the Reform, and in the House. But now that Sadleir’s dead by his own hand, and all his business swindles have come to light,’ Scully said, ‘I discover from Sadleir’s private papers that those two rogues had conspired against me: Ingram colluded with Sadleir over the Castle Hyde Estates! That damned newspaper proprietor never bought the estates at all! Sadleir had mortgaged the property for huge sums, acquired a profit of £5,000 and had shared the proceeds with that rogue Ingram, leaving me out in the cold!’

  My mouth was dry as I listened to Scully’s tale of financial woe. You’ll appreciate my feelings – I had after all been involved with Sadleir myself. He had financed my election to Marylebone in return for my identifying his ‘corpse’ at the Dead House. I looked up at the ceiling, pretending to consider deeply. ‘What value can be placed on the Castle Hyde estates now?’ I asked.

  Scully scowled. ‘At least £30,000. Ingram was guilty of a fraudulent representation to me; I could have bought the estates in my own name and made a profit from their resale, and there’s also the matter of the £9,000 Sadleir owed me – and which I’ll never now get back since that damned fraudster swallowed cyanide at Jack Straw’s Tavern. Blast his dead eyes!’

  Not so dead, I thought nervously, not so dead. But I kept my feelings under control.

  ‘So you wish to consult me over the matter of reparations from Mr Ingram?’

  ‘I want the damned cheat exposed as a fraud! And I want damages for his fraudulent misrepresentation in the matter! Ingram knew what he was doing: he was in league with Sadleir. Ingram’s a wealthy man – and I intend to see him pay!’

  It was difficult for me to refuse to act on his behalf. I felt that I needed to stay close to this business. There had been numerous claims arising out of Sadleir’s ‘suicide’, and I had represented clients in a number of lawsuits regarding his affairs, not least because if I was involved it meant I could keep a close eye on events . . . and ensure that no information embarrassing, or dangerous, to myself came to light. The ageing Dr Thomas Wakley, who had also identified the corpse at the Dead House, would say nothing damaging for the sake of his own reputation as a coroner and founder of The Lancet, but one never knew what might come out in a court hearing. It was as well for me to be involved, to monitor and control matters. So I agreed to act for Vincent Scully MP in his suit against Herbert Ingram, our fellow Reform Club member.

  When the case came on, Ingram naturally denied everything. He pleaded that he was innocent of any knowledge of Sadleir’s fraudulent activity. But I saw his nervousness when I rose to cross-examine him on his statements. He was trembling. A bully, and a coward . . . and he was terrified of me and my reputation.

  He had good cause. He was about forty-seven years old then, a capricious, coarse individual spoiled by his own success and unused to being bullied in his turn. I knew he had come to realize his involvement with Sadleir had been a bad mistake, but it was too late now.

  I tore him to shreds in the witness box.

  My questions were fierce and insistent as I went over every detail of his behaviour in the Scully affair over Castle Hyde; he began to be flustered and confused, got dates and sums wrong, contradicted himself, and when I ranged more widely he made damaging admissions which demonstrated that the Castle Hyde business had not been unique: he had had other shady dealings with John Sadleir prior to the Scully fraud.

  I kept him in the witness box all day and I never let up in my relentless cross-examination.

  When the court finally rose, Ingram was sweating profusely, ashen-faced and trembling. He seemed to be having trouble catching his breath. He could not leave the box unaided, and I noted that a friend of his – Sir Edwin Watkins – went to give him assistance. I gathered from later gossip that Watkins had been forced to take Ingram to a room at the Euston Hotel nearby, where the newspaper proprietor could recover and stop his shaking and trembling. Watkins himself told me that Ingram had been utterly broken down by his experience that day in the witness box, that he felt his reputation was utterly destroyed, his honour was in shreds and that suicide was the only road left open to him.

  But while Watkins was trying to calm him at the Euston Hotel that day, with numerous glasses of brandy and water, I was summing up for the jury.

  We won a verdict of cour
se, but you can never count on the reactions from a jury. They clearly felt the three men involved were a group of rogues, with nothing much to choose between them, and they awarded Scully a mere £300 in damages. I think they might also have been influenced by the newspaperman’s popularity for producing The Illustrated London News. Or maybe they felt pity for the man in his broken state after I had handled him so roughly.

  Scully was reasonably well satisfied, however. Justice had been served, albeit in a niggardly fashion. And as for Ingram, well, I met him a few weeks later in the Reform Club. I went out of my way to approach him. He eyed me nervously as I extended my hand.

  ‘You are well, sir?’

  ‘Well enough,’ Ingram muttered. His piggy eyes flickered glances around the room. ‘I was taken ill. I have recovered.’

  ‘I heard as much.’ I hesitated, feeling I needed to build bridges, much as I disliked this man. ‘I hope you feel, Ingram, that there was no personal malice involved in my treatment of you in the witness box. I was simply doing my duty, doing my best for my client. After all, you might recall that before the case came on I did very kindly advise you, here at the club, that it would be sensible and wise to settle the matter before the hearing, reach a compromise with Scully. Court actions are always risky business.’

  Ingram took a deep breath, licked his thick lips. ‘But my honour was impugned. I’m not sure I can leave things as they are, Mr James.’

  ‘That will be for you to decide.’

  He hesitated, and then asked a surprising question. ‘I wonder . . . perhaps you would do me the honour of dining with me at Swineshead Hall in the near future?’

  I was somewhat taken aback, but intrigued. After a certain hesitation, I accepted the invitation. Though I did not realize it at the time, it was an unwise decision on my part, and was to have unforeseen consequences. . . .

  This was about the time of my second election to the Marylebone seat, and expenses were devastating. I had long since spent the money John Sadleir had paid me, and I was in desperate straits. However, I won the seat, and I had the favour of Lord Palmerston, enhanced by the success of my mission to Garibaldi’s camp, and I knew that if I could hold on for a little while, once I attained office as Attorney General all would go well.

  It was only on my return from Italy that I heard of the sinking of the Milwaukee on Lake Superior in Canada. It seems that while dancing and carousing was continuing that evening on board, the ship had been struck by a paddle steamer and had gone down in a matter of minutes. Herbert Ingram and his son were on board: both were drowned. I must confess that I received the news with no great sorrow: we had a memorial lunch at the Reform Club and the usual expressions of condolence were sent to his widow Ann, but to be honest with you, the main feeling I experienced was one of relief.

  Until the executor of Ingram’s estate, his friend Sir Edwin Watkins, turned up at my chambers. Unannounced.

  ‘You are an unprincipled rogue, sir,’ he announced coldly without preliminaries.

  I have always been a man of cool temperament. I cocked a lazy eyebrow. ‘Make a statement like that outside these chambers,’ I replied, ‘and I’ll see you in court. To your considerable cost.’

  He was silent for a little while, but there was a cold fury rising in his eyes. I never liked Watkins. He was a railway magnate, MP for Boston, a friend of Ingram’s but I always suspected his real attachment was to Ann Ingram: he had always lusted after her.

  ‘I am here in the capacity of executor to Herbert Ingram’s estate.’

  ‘For which I am sure his widow is duly grateful,’ I insinuated. ‘But what do you want with me?’

  ‘Want, sir? I demand! Repayment of the money you extorted from Ingram.’

  I observed Watkins carefully. He was middle-aged, bulky, and short-tempered at the best of times; now he was becoming quite red in the face, and his Dundreary whiskers were quivering with rage. ‘I really have no idea what you are talking about, Watkins.’

  ‘You forced him to lend you money for your damned expenses of the Marylebone election!’ Watkins exploded.

  I rose slowly from behind my desk. As I stood, so did he. My breathing was regular, his was excited. We remained like that, glaring at each other. My tone was icy. ‘I think you should leave now, and make no more such statements. You’re on dangerous ground, my friend.’

  ‘Not as dangerous as you, James! I’m acting on behalf of the widowed Mrs Ingram, and I’ve gone over Mr Ingram’s papers and I’ve come across proof of a scandalous debt. Two and a half thousand pounds, to be exact! It belongs to the estate. It belongs to Mrs Ingram. And I’m here to collect it.’

  I smiled confidently. ‘I’m sure you think you’re acting in Mrs Ingram’s best interests – take her my condolences by the way, for I hear you’re much in her company these days. Comforting the grieving widow, hey? But I’ve no recollection of any such debt, and I’m certainly not interested in boosting Mrs Ingram’s already considerable fortune, attained as a result of her husband’s unfortunate death.’

  Watkins was almost spitting with fury. Unrequited lust can do that for a man: destroy his judgment. He wanted justice for the widow, as he saw it.

  ‘I have the proof,’ he snarled.

  ‘I’ll say goodbye,’ I retorted. ‘My clerk will show you downstairs.’

  Instead, to my surprise, Watkins slowly sat down and looked up at me, containing his anger with an effort, but suddenly more dangerous in my eyes for his control. He hunched his shoulders, still glaring at me.

  ‘You almost ruined my friend Ingram that day in court. You broke his health. He contemplated suicide. He felt he had lost his honour as a result of your attacks upon him in the courtroom.’

  I nodded. ‘Scully v Ingram was indeed one of my more effective performances. But as I later explained to your friend, I was merely acting with professional objectivity for my client. He accepted that with good grace. He knew there was nothing personal involved.’

  ‘So I’ve been led to understand. He accepted that statement for what it was worth. Mrs Ingram tells me he even extended an invitation to you to dine with them at Swineshead Hall.’

  ‘That is so,’ I replied carefully.

  ‘But then, some months later, you acted for Vincent Scully again, when Ingram decided to appeal the verdict at the first trial.’

  He was calmer now, but there was still a vicious glint in his eyes. I sat down also, and nodded. ‘I did. The hearing was before Lord Chief Justice Cockburn.’

  ‘From whom you requested a meeting in chambers after the opening of the trial.’

  ‘That is not unusual, or sinister. It is normal practice when the parties do not wish to proceed. A compromise was being sought.’

  ‘And a compromise was thereafter effected.’

  ‘A compromise,’ I said coldly and confidently, ‘in which Mr Ingram, his counsel, Lord Cockburn, Mr Scully and myself all concurred.’

  Watkins was silent for a little while, but his eyes never left mine. At last, he snarled, ‘How was it that during the first trial you humiliated and almost destroyed Mr Ingram, but during the second trial you let him down easily?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ I stated firmly. ‘I was acting on instructions on both occasions. And the verdict regarding damages in the first hearing was upheld: on the appeal, the Lord Chief Justice merely pronounced that Ingram’s honour was not impugned, and that allegations of dishonest practices and fraudulent misbehaviour were to be withdrawn. In spite,’ I added casually, ‘of your friend’s well-known propensity in that direction.’

  He took the bait. He crashed a fist on the table between us. ‘Damn you, James, the man is dead and you still impugn his character! But you are the one who shall be on trial over this! Mrs Ingram has told me that she personally will be satisfied by repayment of the money Ingram gave you, but I shall not be so easily bought off!’

  ‘I do not impugn his character lightly,’ I replied, becoming more heated myself by his threats. ‘Ingram was a r
ogue and you know it. He was a lascivious bully and a fraudster!’

  ‘And he bought you off!’

  I clenched my fists, and brought myself under control. I needed to know what was behind this attack by Watkins. ‘You had better explain yourself.’

  ‘I intend to do so. Not merely to you, but to the Benchers of the Inner Temple. I’ll see you destroyed, James, before I’m through! But first, I want that two and a half thousand.’

  ‘A figure plucked out of thin air.’

  ‘No! A figure stated in writing, by your hand!’ Triumphantly, he thrust his pudgy fist into his coat pocket and drew forth a piece of paper. He proceeded to read the words written on it. ‘I must make the sum two thousand five hundred and fifty pounds. Please send me cheques for five hundred pounds for Monday and seven hundred and fifty for Monday week.’ Watkins grimaced sourly. ‘You signed this note! He sent you that money against the security of an insurance policy you gave him. Now I demand you repay that debt to his widow.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘You can tell Mrs Ingram I shall always be grateful to her deceased husband for the support he gave me regarding my election to Marylebone. But he was not alone in that. Sir James Duke gave me financial assistance. So did Colonel Dickson, and others who believed in the principles for which I stood. Reform. And the money you’re talking about was duly repaid. There is no debt outstanding to Ingram’s estate.’

  ‘There is no evidence of repayment! That money was never repaid, and you damned well know it! Moreover, you got it from Ingram by clear extortion!’

  I had had enough. ‘I think this conversation has run its course, sir,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Extortion, I say! What you do not know, James, is that after the first hearing of Scully v Ingram, when I took my distracted friend to the Euston Hotel, he was in a state of shock. Some weeks later, when he was somewhat recovered he told me he had to pay you some money. I replied I saw no reason why he should do so. His reply was: “I must. I am so afraid of him. I must do everything he asks and I must give him the money he asks for.”’