by Roy Lewis
The coldness at the back of my neck had increased. I had good reason not to recall the mysterious passing of Lord George Bentinck. ‘The death was finally determined to have been a heart attack,’ I muttered.
‘Aye, that’s so. But gossip still swirls around, long after such events. Take this thing about John Sadleir. He died a swindler’s death, expressin’ his remorse in the suicide note. But there’s all these cases in the courts, arising out of his swindles – you been briefed in many of them, I know – it means his name never seems to be out of the papers, even after these years.’
I finished my brandy and water. I pushed back my chair, scraping it on the bare boards. ‘What’s this all about? What’s your interest in John Sadleir, Ben?’
Gully scratched his head and grimaced. ‘It’s not a personal one, Mr James. It’s just that I thought you ought to know that apart from all these court cases arising out of the Tipperary Bank collapse, there’s also been rumours circulating.’
‘Rumours?’ My mouth was dry. I raised a hand to the sullen waiter; I called for another brandy and water.
Gully waited in silence until I was served. ‘There’s them who say Sadleir ain’t really dead. Rumour reckons he’s been seen alive in South America.’
It would be Valparaiso, in my opinion. I shook my head. ‘Rumours only. I saw that corpse. Dr Wakley and I identified it.’
‘And there was the matter of the money Sadleir withdrew before his death. Seemed to vanish into thin air. About the time you got elected to Marylebone.’
‘Two years before I got elected,’ I corrected him, impatiently. ‘What’s this all about, Gully?’
He shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘I’m asking you no questions, Mr James. Not about any ties you had to Sadleir. Not about the identification. Not about what happened to the money he drew out, day before he died. I don’t want to know no details. And I got no interest in what’s happened in the past. There are things I don’t pry into. But you and I, we’ve had a sound relationship for some years now and I’ve appreciated the trust you’ve resided in me. So when I heard some chatter recently, well, I thought I ought to have a quiet word with you.’
‘About John Sadleir?’
‘About John Sadleir and James Sadleir and defrauded investors in the Tipperary Bank and other financial houses.’
I finished my drink in a gulp. My hand was shaking slightly. I could not tell if Gully noticed, but he always had sharp eyes. ‘Chatter,’ I muttered. ‘Idle tavern chatter. What’s it got to do with me?’
Ben Gully sighed. ‘It’s all a bit . . . vague at the moment. But you of all people, having handled so many fraud cases regarding Sadleir’s activities, you’ll be aware that he defrauded hundreds of small farmers and tenants in Ireland, persuaded them to put money into his bank, forged railway shares, played the big man with expensive tastes – while all the while milking the banks for all they were worth. The big London investors, they could handle it. But all those little men in Ireland . . . that’s a different kettle of fish.’
‘I don’t understand your meaning.’
‘You know, there’s all sorts turn up in the London back streets; Wapping and Blackfriars, and St Giles, these parts see lots of foreigners coming in, cheap lodgings, criminal intentions, you know how it is. And their numbers include a great swathe of Irish immigrants. From what I hear, that’s why James Sadleir has disappeared.’
‘I still fail to see—’
‘James Sadleir is keeping his head low, probably in Italy or some such place, because he’s heard that some of the Irish immigrants in London have come here with a specific purpose.’
‘Which is?’
‘Repayment . . . or revenge.’
I stiffened. I kept my head down, thinking hard. I had known Sadleir at the Reform Club and the House of Commons, and I had acted in numerous cases arising from his death but the only other known link to him was my identification of the corpse. There was the money he paid me, of course, but I had never heard my name mentioned in connection with the missing thousands Sadleir had drawn out of the bank before his death. I couldn’t see how I should be in danger from these people.
‘Who are these individuals, specifically?’
Gully’s face was shadowed as he leaned back against the wall. ‘You know what the Irish are like, Mr James. They’re all obsessed with their Catholic secret societies. They’re always for righting the wrongs done to them in Ireland. If it isn’t evicting landlords it’s Home Rule; if it isn’t boycotts it’s hunger marches. And almost always it’s directed against the occupying English. The Fenian movement—’
‘Are you warning me about the Fenians?’ I demanded abruptly.
‘Not so, Mr James. But there is a group of angry, bitter, determined men who have sent some of their so-called soldiers to London. A secret society, of course, but with one objective only. They are composed of hundreds of swindled men, little men, tenant farmers ruined by the depredations of John Sadleir. They are determined to get hold of his brother James, whom they suspect of having salted away vast sums himself, before going on the run. And once they find him, whether he’s got money or not, they mean to murder him.’
‘This group . . . this secret society, how are they calling themselves?’
‘The Cork Revengers.’
I took a deep breath. After a short silence, I muttered, ‘You said you wanted to see me urgently, Ben.’
He nodded, scratched his scarred, broken nose. ‘It may be nothin’, Mr James. But names have been bandied about. I can’t be certain of anything as yet, but with these people wandering around the rookeries and elsewhere, askin’ questions . . . well, I thought maybe I should tell you about it.’
‘Warn me?’
‘That’s a bit strong. I have no precise information yet. But there’s one thug, a Patrick O’Neill. I’m told he’s dropped your name in a couple of taverns . . . been asking about you. I can’t say more than that. But I thought maybe you should know. . . .’
As if I didn’t have enough already to worry about.
3
The three Benchers who had been given the task of investigating my affairs began by interviewing Edwin Watkins. I knew what he would be saying: he had already threatened me clearly enough. They then went on to talk to Colonel Lothian Dickson. I made sure that I was provided each day with copies of the evidence that was given to them.
I remained confident, for the reasons I’ve already mentioned. Even if these things could be proved, they were not matters rightly within the jurisdiction of the Benchers. All I had to do was stand my ground, and challenge them.
That’s exactly what I did when I was finally called to make a personal appearance before the three wise men. It was June 12th, a foggy evening along the river, as I recall. I’d had to hurry back from a hearing at Cambridge to face the Benchers and there in the dark, candle-flickered hall of the Inner Temple, I dealt with my accusers. They threw at my head the accusations made by Edwin Watkins, that I had forced Herbert Ingram to lend me money, in return for going easy with him in the second Scully v Ingram hearing. I simply denied the inference arising from Watkins’s evidence. And I was convincing: they knew they didn’t really have a case against me. I named Sir James Duke and Tom Duncombe and other fellow Reformers in the Commons. They had all helped me financially – in the same manner as Ingram.
‘Their intention was to assist me in obtaining the seat at Marylebone. The party needed me in the House. As for Mr Ingram, I shall ever regret the indiscretion of accepting a loan from him but there was nothing dishonourable ever intended or thought of by Mr Ingram or myself, either in the offer or acceptance of that loan.’
And I could tell from their glum expressions, at the end of the interrogation, that they were uncertain how to proceed. My challenge as to their authority over my private actions, the support I had received from other fellow MPs, all this undermined the basis of their inquiry. They were suspicious still, but suspicion was not enough. I knew, and they knew, that all
they would be able to do was perhaps to issue a reprimand and a warning.
I left with my head in the air, after agreeing to a resumption of the hearing in a few days’ time. My guess was that they would then enquire into the Lothian Dickson affair – but what did I have to fear from that? Once again, it had not been a professional matter. I had merely been acting as a negotiator between two of my friends.
All would have been well, but for the interference of that weasel John Roebuck.
He had been appointed Queen’s Counsel in 1843, but had never managed to drum up a large practice. He was a short, apoplectic man of violent speech and manner. He was a Reformer like me, but clearly resented the leading role I had assumed in the House since my election. He was a man of forceful opinions – he always regarded working men as spendthrifts and wife-beaters – and he resented my support of the building trades in London. He was outspoken in his criticisms of Garibaldi: he was a supporter of the Austrian empire. He disliked me intensely.
But he was also cunning, dogged and persistent.
On the second evening, I arrived at the Inner Temple prepared to challenge the Benchers on the Lothian Dickson affair. I began by announcing that they had no grounds on which to make inquiry: the matter was a private one outside their jurisdiction. But then Roebuck surprised me by turning to other matters entirely.
‘We have a list of persons to whom you are indebted, James.’
‘That is most improper! My indebtedness is a purely personal matter!’ I complained. ‘It is beyond the jurisdiction of the Inn.’
Roebuck’s lip curled nastily. ‘One of them is stated to be the Earl of Yarborough.’
I smiled my contempt. ‘I have already stated my position.’
‘Both his lordship and his lordship’s advisers have refused to attend to give evidence.’
‘That is their privilege.’
‘Do you fear such evidence being given?’ Roebuck demanded aggressively. Dr Lushington, at his side, had the grace to look uneasy, while Russell Gurney frowned, but kept his counsel for the time being.
‘I have nothing to fear concerning this matter,’ I countered angrily.
‘Mr Tallents, solicitor to the Earl, is here at the Temple,’ Roebuck snarled, ‘so if you fear nothing, may we call him?’
I knew the Earl of Yarborough had promised to say nothing unless I gave permission, and the same ties bound Tallents. ‘I would have no objection to his giving evidence if the Benchers so desire,’ I declared stoutly, calling Roebuck’s bluff. I knew where I stood: Tallents would say nothing, even if called.
Hubris is a dangerous mental state, as the Greeks recognized; I was confident, I knew what cards I had and I knew how to play them. But I also knew that in a court hearing, things can change quickly, if one does not remain focused, and retain concentration. I was focused, and careful, when the Benchers called Tallents into the room. Russell Gurney was uneasy, Lushington edgily nervous; but Roebuck was under full sail, and he pressed the attorney hard. Tallents refused to give way.
‘The Earl has instructed me not to give evidence, unless Mr James personally requests it.’
And when Roebuck pressed him aggressively, Tallents, thin lips compressed, restated the position. ‘My silence is a result of an agreement between myself, the Earl of Yarborough and Mr James. Only Mr James can release me from that agreement.’
It was an impasse, and Roebuck knew it. But he was not about to give up and he demanded that I instruct Tallents to release himself from the promise of non-disclosure. Naturally, triumphantly, I refused. Roebuck was furious, his tone became sharper, he pressed Tallents hard but the attorney remained constrained by his duty, albeit unwillingly. I had kept my side of the bargain: the Earl and his attorney must do the same. Finally, Tallents wavered.
‘I will present evidence . . . if Mr James so requests.’
‘Do you object, Mr James?’ Roebuck demanded.
‘I do.’
There was an uneasy silence. Dr Lushington sighed. ‘It seems strange that you should raise objections to evidence from Mr Tallents. You did, after all, agree to the examination of his lordship’s advisers.’
And at that critical moment, fatefully, I lost concentration. The door opened and my clerk came in, requesting permission to approach me. Russell Gurney nodded assent, and the clerk came near, gave me an envelope. I opened it, and read the words written on the single sheet of paper. I stood silent, shaken.
‘May we proceed, Mr James?’ Russell Gurney asked.
My mind was elsewhere, my senses whirling. ‘Of course, of course,’ I replied, distracted.
I was barely aware of what was going on. There was a brief discussion between Roebuck and Tallents. The attorney agreed that the Earl of Yarborough would have no objection to his giving evidence. But I had to agree to it. The Benchers turned to me again, and asked if I was agreeable to Tallents being examined on the matter of my indebtedness to the Earl of Yarborough and his underage son.
And I looked again at the note, then crushed it nervously in my hand. A question was asked of me again but I barely heard it. I nodded, agreed, and then too late realized what I had done.
‘Now that Mr James has finally given permission, Mr Tallents, we may proceed to the examination.’
I opened my mouth to protest, but it was too late. Distracted, confused, I had allowed my enemies to enter the gates. The questioning began, but I barely heard a word of it. All that I could think of was the content of the note, the words burning in my mind. Ben Gully’s note had been succinct.
‘Get out of London. NOW!’
A few minutes later, to the surprise of the Benchers who were still questioning Tallents, I rose, and without a further word hurried from the hall.
The evening was dark, overcast, with occasional slivers of moonlight slipping past the scurrying clouds overhead. My chambers were close by: I had been sleeping there since Fryer had taken back the lease of the house in Berkeley Square, some weeks ago. I left the Temple, and entered the narrow lane leading to my chambers. Dark shutters were closed against me in the lane and there was no chink of light to be seen. In a courtyard ahead, a pale light gleamed for a moment but I detected no movement. All was silent except for the sound of my boots on the cobbled surface of the lane. But my skin crawled, for I had the overwhelming feeling that I was not alone.
I slowed my pace, moving forward cautiously, and then there he was: he materialized out of a dark corner to my right, at the junction of two alleys. I stopped, my heart in my mouth, the blood pounding in my veins. I knew these dark lanes; I knew the terrors they could hold for unwary citizens. And I had no defences, no knife, no pistol, no cudgel. The man approaching me was big, dark-clothed, bare-headed. I could not make out his features but he came towards me without hesitation, determination in his stride, his boots clanging in the dark alley. I hesitated only momentarily, then turned to flee back towards the security of Inner Temple Hall because I was convinced this man meant mischief. But before I had moved ten feet, I realized it was already too late: my retreat had been cut off. Ahead of me, a dark figure was detaching itself from the shadows of a concealing doorway. I heard a low whistle and then there was a scuffling of boots, a sharp cry.
I spun around, not knowing which way to run, and everything was suddenly confusion, a stamping of boots, a roar of anger, and I turned my head to see that the menacing figure that had first threatened me was now himself under attack. There was a whirling of bodies in the darkness, thudding sounds, the harsh breathing of violent men struggling. It was an indistinct mass of fury and violence, it seemed to rise and flail like some great wounded animal, and I heard another sharp cry.
Then my heart seemed to leap into my mouth as a fierce hand gripped my left shoulder, turned me sharply about. I hesitated, struggled against the restraint, ready to flee, but the fingers that dug into my shoulder held firm. Then a wave of relief rushed over me as I heard a familiar voice.
‘Mr James! It’s me. Ben Gully.’
I was badly shaken. I could hardly get the words out for a few moments. ‘Ben! Your note . . . what’s happening . . . what’s this about?’ I demanded in a scared voice.
‘Wait!’
We looked back to the struggling men: it was almost over. I thought I could make out the figures of two men, holding down another, who was groaning on the cobbles. As I watched I saw a hand raised, heard the crunch of a cudgel against bone. Ben Gully’s hand relaxed, slipped down towards my elbow, began to steer me towards a narrow, dark alley on the right.
‘This way.’ His voice was low, controlled.
We moved towards the alley and as I peered back to the now silent group I saw one man raise his arm, as though in salute. Ben Gully raised a hand in response then pushed me into the alley. ‘We can get you to your chambers this way.’
‘What’s going on?’ I gasped as we hurried along.
‘We’ve been watching him. We thought he might try to waylay you. With what object, we don’t know – but it was mischief, believe me. So I arranged a couple of outliers.’
They would have been the men who had intervened, the two who had subdued the villain who was about to attack me. Gully released my arm. We were emerging again into Inner Temple Lane. Gully was close beside me, almost whispering into my ear. He had taken no part in the swift battle behind us, but he was breathing hard. ‘You need to leave London at once.’
‘I don’t understand—’
‘Leave at once. Take only what you need. But you must get away.’
‘What’s happened? What’s going on?’ I asked, half scared, half angry.
Gully took a deep breath. ‘I told you there was a man called O’Neill in London. He’s been asking questions in the rookeries. And people have been talking. Irishmen. There’s gossip of the secret society, a band of committed ruffians, the Cork Revengers. Rumours have been scurrying around like rats. And tonight I heard what O’Neill was after. A quiet talk with you. And I could guess how that would have ended.’ Gully stopped, gripped my arm fiercely. ‘Look, Mr James, I don’t know and I don’t want to know what your relationship was with John Sadleir, or with his brother James Sadleir. But it’s come to my ears that O’Neill had questions he wanted to put to you regarding your possible implication in the frauds that Sadleir committed.’