A Fugitive Englishman

by Roy Lewis

  After all, who knew what might lie around the corner? The Earl was an old man. He was not in the best of health. He could not be long for this world. And when he died, he would be succeeded by Lord Worsley, and I was convinced that my influence over that starstruck young man could yet bring about dividends. The important thing was to survive.

  I looked at Tallents, and I smiled. I was pleased to see that my smile unnerved him, unsettled him, jolted him out of his complacency. I nodded.

  ‘I agree to his lordship’s requests. I shall let you have a fair signed copy of the draft agreement in the morning. I shall also send you a draft of the letter I will need to have published in The Times. But I also have a condition to impose upon his lordship.’

  ‘You?’ he croaked. ‘You seek to impose a condition?’

  ‘The condition is a simple one. I will follow his decisions in these matters but in return I will require his personal assurance – and yours – that no details of the agreement outlined in this paper shall be published without my specific permission. At any time. In any event.’ I folded the sheet of paper and put it into my pocket. ‘I believe our conversation has now run its course, Mr Tallents. My clerk will see you out.’

  He seemed a little out of countenance when he left.

  After he had gone, I sat in the darkening room with the brandy decanter in front of me. I had much to think of and I’ve always found that a glass or two could help considerably in my contemplation of difficulties, in reaching sound decisions. You see, my boy, I have always been a man of cheerful and optimistic disposition. I had been in many scrapes in my years at the Bar and had managed to survive them – emerging even more strongly as a consequence. And I have always believed in my innate abilities. Yes, I had much to think about. There was no doubt that my resignations from clubs and Commons along with my relinquishing the position of Recorder of Brighton would cause a sensation in the metropolis and beyond – but my creditors would be silenced and constrained and I could concentrate on the expansion of my career.

  All, I considered as I sipped my brandy and water, was not yet lost. A setback, it certainly was, but I was convinced a glittering future yet shone before me.

  2

  A sensation it certainly was.

  The Marylebone Mercury was beside itself with unsuppressed excitement as was the Monmouthshire Merlin; the Spectator was full of wild surmise; the Morning Post carried a supportive leader, but the Manchester Guardian was suspicious and probing for details that might destroy me – the result of its legal correspondent being an old enemy, Craufurd, who had been smarting ever since his parliamentary humiliation over the Horsham election. The Times was one newspaper that attempted to paint a broad picture, and even guess at the truth . . . what did its leader say? It was something like ‘He who starts on a career at the Bar dares greatly in his early days and the daring takes the form of running into debt. . . .’ It was something like that, anyway, and its tone was mainly sympathetic. And more or less accurate.

  But while I had never been averse to publicity, since over the years it had greatly enhanced my reputation with the attorneys, this kind of speculation was not welcome. I needed to wait until the hubbub had died down; I needed time to think and plan and scheme my way back to the heights, so I told my clerk to turn away any new briefs for the time being and I scurried off to Paris for a few days, to escape the turmoil and speculation.

  My needs were several: getting away from the prurient probing of the press was important, but my nerves were on edge and I needed relaxation of a stimulating kind, if you know what I mean. Accordingly, I spent a few days trawling through various brasseries á femmes, you know, the peculiarly French establishments which offer lamb chops and écrevisses bordelaises on the ground floor and French tarts on the floor above. My favourite haunt was one operated by a certain Marcel, a pomaded, grubby-collared, plumply self-satisfied Parisian, who proclaimed his establishment as one catering for lovers of haute cuisine, but who pimped enthusiastically for the whores on his upper floor. In person, he concentrated mainly upon the food, however, never indulging himself in the carnal delights available above his head: he preferred salivation to ejaculation. He regarded food as a healthy substitute for sex.

  I enjoyed both, of course, and, suitably sated after two days at Marcel’s, I calmed down and reverted to langue de veau au jus, huitres and entrecôtes a l’Anglais at Café Lapérousse in the Quai des Grands-Augustins where I could forget my misfortunes and entertain myself by observing the passing scene. I sprawled at my table and watched the passing show; I enjoyed the waft of patchouli in the air as the doll-like demi-mondaines with their frizzed hair, frills and furbelows came trit-trotting past, their high heels tapping out unmistakeable invitations. And my other pastime was to watch the suiveurs, middle-aged men who spent their time trailing the factory girls and grisettes who strolled by on the pavements – men who were too timid or impecunious to approach them, satisfied only with lascivious leering. I despised them: I saw myself as a man of action, both professionally and in terms of leisure pursuits.

  To my surprise, one afternoon I thought I recognized one of these suiveurs. Stiff-backed, magnificently moustached, he caught my eye as he walked past the café table where I was relaxing with a glass of vin rouge. He seemed startled, hesitated, then acknowledged my presence with a reluctant bow before giving up his trailing of a little high-heeled giggler and turning swiftly on his heel to disappear into the thronged street. It took me several puzzled minutes – I was still somewhat distracted those days with a turmoil of thoughts – before I recalled who he was. He had been introduced to me by Marianne Hilliard: Colonel Augustus Wheatley.

  The eminent hussar, now a Parisian suiveur des jupes.

  I smiled at the thought, but soon dismissed the man from my mind. I had a campaign to plan. I had spent five days in Paris; there would have been time for some of the heat over my resignations to be dissipated. It was now time to return, pick up new briefs, charge into the legal fray and work myself to the bone. I knew I had the talent and the reputation; I knew I could get back to my previous eminence; I knew I was the most successful man at the Bar and the attorneys would still be eager to brief me – whatever the gossip in the clubs.

  So the next day, I took the ferry back to Folkestone, and the train back to London. Only to find my enemies had already been at work.

  Leading them was that weasel Craufurd, backed by the man I had seen as a convenient friend: the attorney Fryer. I returned to find that the sneaky lawyer had entered into my premises at Berkeley Square, taken back the lease, and had put in an attainder on all my plate and other household effects. As for Craufurd, well, he had taken advantage of the situation to obtain his long-awaited revenge: he had issued a formal complaint to the Benchers of the Inner Temple, requesting that they set up an inquiry into my affairs – notably my involvement with Colonel Lothian Dickson, the entanglement with Herbert Ingram, and the extensive list of creditors who would seem to be clamouring at my door.

  Charles Craufurd; I recall I’ve already told you about him. He had never attained the kind of success I had enjoyed at the Bar. He was an MP and fellow member of the Inner Temple and he had hoped to obtain the post of Recorder at Brighton. When I had been appointed, he had dragged up the stale story of my activities as John Jervis’s agent in the notorious Horsham election, had made wild accusations in the House of Commons where he was unwise enough to drag in the names of Sir Alexander Cockburn and Sir John Jervis as co-conspirators, and had been roundly jeered at and criticized by his own supporters. Ever since, he had been seething with envy and burning for revenge. A decade of loathing . . . and with the news of my resignations he now felt he could finally obtain vengeance.

  A simple seaman like yourself, perhaps you won’t appreciate the chicanery, self-serving, vindictive hating that can go on among a group of men who compete for the prizes of the legal profession. Believe me, a brawl in a Marseilles saloon is nothing by comparison. And when Craufurd made his compl
aint, and I was notified of the list of Benchers who would be making enquiries into my conduct, I knew I was in trouble. Russell Gurney, John Roebuck, Dr Lushington – they were all men who disliked and envied me. They had been among those who blackballed me when I was first commissioned as Queen’s Counsel, barring me from membership of the Bench of the Inner Temple. I could expect little sympathy from these men.

  Yet, I still felt confident. In the days that followed, I prepared myself thoroughly for the ordeal to come. I was convinced I was on safe ground. I had thought things over in Paris and I had worked out what I would say – and most of all I knew I would put them on the back foot by my challenge. These matters that Craufurd complained of, what were they to do with the Benchers? They had the right to adjudicate upon professional matters affecting membership of the Inn, but nothing else. Certainly not private financial arrangements I might have entered into: all lawyers borrowed money! And as for the level of my indebtedness, they would never discover the extent of that because I had the word of the Earl of Yarborough that he would not disclose my activities with Lord Worsley. I had kept my side of the bargain by my resignations from clubs, the House of Commons and the Recordership. The Earl of Yarborough, I knew, would, as a man of honour, keep his.

  So as I prepared my defence in the days before the inquiry was to be held, I also kept myself busy with briefs that took me to Cambridge, King’s Lynn and Oxford, with the occasional foray to Liverpool. It meant late nights but I was used to that, and the challenge of winning cases for my clients kept my wits sharp and stimulated. Then, two nights before the inquiry, I returned to my chambers to find two letters waiting for me.

  The first was from France. It was intriguing, to say the least. I can still remember the words. . . .

  My dear Mr James

  I am informed by Colonel Wheatley that he recently saw you in Paris. Should you think of visiting France again in the near future I should be very pleased if you were to call upon me at my home in Boulogne. I would much welcome the opportunity for a discussion with you, on a matter of business. It could possibly be to both our advantages.

  It was signed by Marianne Hilliard.

  I sat and thought about the mysterious invitation for a little while, then set it aside. I had too many other things of consequence upon my mind to consider how I should reply. Apart from our brief recent meeting in Paris, it was some years since I had last seen her. I thought back to the occasion when a nocturnal assignation had seemed to be on the cards, not long after she had left her husband, Crosier Hilliard. It had been a disaster, interrupted by the amative nocturnal wanderings of Viscount Palmerston. A disaster, and yet in a way it had also been a useful encounter in that my subsequent discretion had led Palmerston to view me in a friendly light. And offer me political support. . . .

  I set the letter aside and picked up the second missive. It was brief, and to the point. It was from Ben Gully. He suggested that we should meet soon, as a matter of urgency.

  We met the following day at the Blue Boar Inn in the Haymarket.

  I’ve already told you about Ben Gully. I had used his services for a number of years. Short, stocky, broad-shouldered, he was a man you could rely upon in a tight corner. Fists like hams, a scarred, broken nose and a brain that had locked away most of the secrets of the London underworld. He knew the larcenous families and the forgers, the horse-copers and the swell mob, the coiners and embezzlers and the arsonists. He enjoyed unrestricted access to the rookeries of St Giles and the riverbank hideaways and gained much intelligence from the racecourses and bare-knuckle pugilistic encounters that were frequented by men of high and low station in life. So whenever I needed information for a client – information regarding anything from brothels to bone-breakers – it was to Ben Gully that I turned. He was a rich mine of information who had helped me crack the mystery of the disappearing Derby winner, Running Rein, back in 1844.

  But it was on only rare occasions that he suggested we meet. Such occasions were invariably of some importance.

  Do you know the Blue Boar Inn? No? It was located at a short distance from the Haymarket. It was an ancient inn, reputedly the place where Richard III had spent his last night before riding out to his death at Bosworth Field. Its character had changed over the centuries: now it tended to be a haunt of prostitutes and the sensation-seeking swells who came spilling out from the Haymarket Theatre in the evenings. During the day, it still had a certain dilapidated, louche appearance, but under its black-timbered roofs there were dark corners where a man could indulge in discreet discussions: it had its own code with regard to its clientele. Police informers might obtain access but never found it easy to get out again.

  Ben Gully was already ensconced in a corner away from the grubby windows. He wore a dark-brown greatcoat which he had opened to display a blue coat with a black velvet collar. I had no doubt that in the depths of the greatcoat pockets he would be concealing weapons of offence. A short club, perhaps, or a pistol. And a knife. He always took precautions when he ventured out into the dark streets of London. I sat down opposite him. I ordered a brandy and water from a sullen waiter, along with a pint of porter for Gully. I had never seen Ben the worse for wear as a result of alcohol. I knew he enjoyed porter, but never saw him partake of more than two jugs.

  ‘It’s been a while, my friend.’

  ‘It has that, Mr James,’ Gully murmured. His voice was roughened, and there was an odd tension in his tone. ‘I been out of town a while . . . and you’ve had no call on my services.’

  ‘That’s true. No private enquiries to be made.’

  ‘Eight months, in fact, Mr James. But no matter. I don’t doubt there’ll be other occasions.’ His narrow-eyed glance traversed the room, suspiciously. ‘I saw you at the Sayers-Heenan fight. And I read about your showing in the case that followed.’

  ‘Is that why you wanted to see me, Ben?’ I enquired as I smiled, and sipped my brandy and water. ‘To chat about shaven-headed pugilists?’

  ‘No, no. . . .’ He was silent for a little while. He tapped a scarred knuckle on the table in distracted fashion. He leaned back in his seat, his face shadowed from my curious gaze. ‘You ever come across James Sadleir, Mr James?’

  Something cold seemed to touch the back of my neck and I did not meet Gully’s careful eyes. ‘Of course. From time to time. He was an MP and a member of the Reform Club, as was I, but resigned from both after the banking scandal of the collapse of his brother’s Tipperary Bank.’ I shrugged carelessly. ‘We were never friends, if that’s what you ask. We met occasionally. That’s all.’

  ‘He’s no longer in London.’

  I affected a lack of concern. ‘No one seems to know where he is these days. Some say he’s gone abroad – though maybe he’s back in Ireland, skulking from the blame heaped on his shoulders when the bank collapsed.’

  Gully shifted in his seat, took a draught of his porter. ‘It was his brother, John Sadleir, who accepted the major part of the blame. Wrote a letter of explanation, before he took his own life at Jack Straw’s Tavern on Hampstead Heath. But you would know all about that, Mr James.’

  It was a flat statement, and yet it held a hint of enquiry in it. I nodded slowly. ‘Yes, of course I knew all about it. I’ve had more than a few briefs arising out of that business, believe me.’

  ‘But you knew him, John Sadleir.’

  ‘I did. I knew John Sadleir, rather better than I knew his brother.’ I kept my tone steady, unconcerned. I had the feeling Ben Gully was fishing for something. ‘He also was a member of the Reform Club. But John Sadleir was an unscrupulous rogue and few will have mourned his passing.’

  We were both silent for a little while. My mind drifted back to the Herbert Ingram problem: that had all arisen because of John Sadleir’s criminal conspiracies and fraudulent activities. Sadleir’s shade still hovered over me, even after all these years.

  ‘I think you saw his corpse, did you not, Mr James? And identified it.’ Gully said suddenly.

 
; ‘I did,’ I admitted shortly. I had no desire to elaborate further.

  Ben Gully nodded reflectively. ‘Nasty way to go. Cyanide, I believe. That can do fearful things to a man. Twists his guts and his face. Wouldn’t be my poison of choice, if I was inclined to do harm to meself. Not that it’s a likely possibility: there’s others who would put my lights out quick enough, rather than me doing it myself. . . .’

  I managed a nervous laugh. ‘So I believe. A man of your talents makes many enemies.’

  ‘As does a man of your high position, Mr James. But this John Sadleir . . . when you saw him in the Dead House. Was he really dead?’

  ‘I never saw a colder stiff.’ Gully may well have noticed the slight evasion in my reply: he was sharper than a whetted knife, was Ben Gully.

  ‘Yes . . . and I understand it was the coroner, Dr Wakley, who was with you that day at the Dead House. Together you identified the corpse.’ Gully paused. ‘Dr Wakley’s getting old now. Bit doddery.’

  ‘He can still tell a dead man from a live one.’ I was suddenly irritated. ‘What’s this about, Ben? I’m a busy man. I can’t waste time talking about events that barely touched me five or more years ago.’

  Ben Gully sighed, leaned forward, drained his mug of porter and inspected his broken fingernails. He shook his head. ‘You know, Mr James, some people is never satisfied. When a man of consequence passes on, there are always questions, and rumours that fly through the taverns. Take the time Lord George Bentinck died suddenly. There was a lot of talk, some saying he didn’t die of natural causes; but it was wild talk. Names were bandied about. He was always a committed enemy of yours, Mr James. I never heard you pass any comment on his lordship’s death.’