A Fugitive Englishman

by Roy Lewis

  As for her performance that sensational night, it was witnessed by an audience that contained nine Union generals in full dress uniform, the millionaire Astor and Schuyler families and a packed group of ready-to-be-shocked ladies all agog for the moment when she would appear naked, tied to the back of a galloping steed. I don’t believe Mrs Grimshaw was among them. As for Adah, she was superb; she was not completely naked, of course, for in spite of the advance publicity she wore a flesh-coloured body stocking and the steed ‘galloped’ rather wearily at a walking pace up a sloping frame on rollers, past which mountain sceneries were drawn along in the background. Nevertheless the audience cheered to the rafters and we were all dazzled: Edwin Booth and Ada Clare, then regarded as the royalty of the New York stage, took the trouble to congratulate her, and the newspapers next day were full of her praise.

  My presence in her company was noted, as it was when, accepting her offer to show me around the city, I accompanied her on several occasions thereafter.

  Consequently, the domestic atmosphere in the Albemarle Hotel turned frosty.

  ‘You’re making a fool of yourself, Edwin,’ Marianne snapped as she paced up and down the sitting room with an infuriated snapping of skirts.

  ‘She’s a famous actress,’ I protested. ‘She provides me with good copy for the Clipper!’

  Marianne was not mollified. She ranted on and on about my degrading myself by being seen in the company of such a notorious woman. She adverted to my parading with Adah on the new pedestrian bridge over Broadway and Fulton Street, a bridge no respectable woman would use because street ruffians below might look up their skirts – Adah was proud of her legs I might add, and would have had no objection to displaying them in such manner. But for the sake of peace I might have stopped the relationship with Adah there, except that a few days later I had the meeting with Colonel Lafayette Baker at which he suggested I should continue to cultivate Adah’s acquaintance to determine her Confederate sympathies. So during the next weeks I was often seen in her company.

  And Marianne finally exploded.

  Unfortunately the quarrel broke out in the crowded public rooms of the Albemarle Hotel. We were coming to the end of our meal and Blanche had already retired sulkily upstairs to our suite. Marianne had been quiet throughout the dinner but I knew she was holding in something, tightly; I knew enough about women to appreciate that a storm was brewing. And when it did, as we took coffee, the storm burst about my head.

  ‘When we made a bargain in Paris, the day of our wedding, I never expected to be humiliated in this manner! Of course I was already aware of your reputation as a coureur de jupes – indeed, Colonel Wheatley expressly warned me – and you had long lived a dissolute bachelor life, but I had persuaded myself that marriage would make you change your ways – not least since I would be supporting you financially! Yes, you see, I came into the marriage with my eyes open! But I never expected this treatment! You have been seen everywhere in the company of this degraded woman, this so-called actress, this harlot who has clawed her way up from the streets and who now prances to fame and fortune on the back of a horse!’

  I held up a hand. ‘Marianne—’

  ‘I see it all now! You will never change! While I have been doing all I can to assist Mrs Grimshaw in helping fallen women on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen you have been consorting with the greatest whore of them all! More – you have behaved like this in the public eye! Do you not appreciate what this does to my position in New York society? Are you not aware, as I am, of the snide, whispered comments, the sly glances of contempt behind fans, the murmurings of pity? You are no gentleman, sir, and you have humiliated me!’

  There was much more in this vein, and as the tirade lengthened so did the level of her tones as she completely lost control of herself. The whole of the crowded dining room sat silent, wide-eyed, listening to every word. Even the spittoons stopped rattling.

  That very evening, the management of the Albemarle Hotel politely requested that we vacate the rooms in which we lived. The affair was reported, as I might have expected, back in England: inevitably, in the Manchester Guardian.

  I felt frustrated of course by my inability to explain I was acting under Colonel Baker’s secret instructions. The situation flayed me further a few days later even when Colonel Baker was sacked, and my employment in the Intelligence Service came to an end – temporarily, at least. Baker’s enthusiasm for rooting out corruption had led to his discovery that Stanton himself was receiving kickbacks from army contracts, so the Secretary for War removed him from his situation.

  As for me, the domestic atmosphere remained decidedly chilly, even though I stayed away from the Broadway theatre, and Adah herself moved on from New York to play to packed houses in Baltimore – where, incidentally, she got herself arrested by the Provost Marshall, briefly, suspected of being a Secessionist. She wrote to me about it. She had refused to deny her Confederate sympathies but the authorities let her go anyway: she was too famous to be incarcerated. So Colonel Baker would have got his proof without my intervention. But if I had told Marianne all this, she wouldn’t have believed a word of it.

  As far as she was concerned, I had broken my marriage vows.

  ‘And I know it’s not just a matter of carrying on in public with that disgraceful actress! I am aware that you still frequent the concert halls, the low-down theatres, the gin palaces and saloons, and continue to consort with the tawdry, foul-mouthed, harsh-voiced harlots who each evening throng the sidewalks of lower Broadway. You are an inveterate skirt-chaser, sir, a whoremaster, a man whom no decent woman would be seen with – and you are my husband! It is too much to bear!’

  I thought I detected the opinions of Mrs Grimshaw in this particular sally.

  I reacted as best I could. To be frank, I feared the loss of her financial support. I begged her pardon, assured her I would change my ways, took her to dine at Delmonico’s, and the Maison Dorée. I flattered her, cajoled her, bought her flowers and French champagne but I had underestimated Marianne. With the resolute backing of Mrs Grimshaw she was not to be deterred. Both women were convinced I was besotted with Adah Menken. And that I lived a life of wild licence in the stews of Five Points.

  What? Did I ever actually become Adah’s lover? No, in fact, I did not. True, I was tempted on one occasion. She had invited me up to her rooms so she could read me her poems – she fancied herself as a versifier, you know, and was later encouraged in that belief by that boy-caresser Whitman and that whip-loving degenerate Swinburne. Talking of that little pimp, I never could reconcile myself to the image of Swinburne and Adah as lovers. He was reputed to enjoy being lashed by older women after bathing naked in the sea. Curious fellow. . . . But no, as I say, I did take the one opportunity in her hotel room to press my suit. She read her poems to me, then started talking about love and loneliness, so I naturally assumed an opportunity lay before me. But . . . well, to put it plainly she turned aside from my advances. She wanted us to be friends only: even to be a ‘brother’ to her.

  I tell you my boy, that was a novel situation for me!

  But to placate the suspicious, edgy Marianne it became obvious to me that I had to buckle down to my legal career and smooth the path of my domestic situation. And for a while things began to go well. Some of the English finance houses in New York placed their prize cases in my hands and I handled such shipping-contract disputes with considerable success. Marianne, Blanche and I were now staying at the Clarendon Hotel but she remained as suspicious as ever each time I failed to return at what she deemed to be a reasonable hour. It was useless pointing out to her that court hearings often took place outside the city, that I had given up my work for the Clipper at her behest, and that I was truly a reformed character. From time to time she seemed to be softening in her attitude, but then Mrs Grimshaw would pour some more temperance poison in her ear and the cross-examinations would begin again. But there were times when she seemed pleased, not least when I got the brief in my first big crimin
al case. It concerned a man called Radetzki, charged with murdering a German called Fellmer. It meant my travelling to Freehold, New Jersey to take on the district attorney but I was able to return to the Clarendon jubilant. She even smiled when I showed her the New York Times report next day, where it extolled my performance in securing an acquittal for my client and stated there was no reason now why I should not obtain almost a monopoly of criminal business in the state.

  But my relief was short-lived. And it all came crashing down within weeks when Marianne discovered a small packet of letters that Adah had written to me from Baltimore. They were innocent enough, but the fact a correspondence had been carried on was enough. Another furious explosion occurred.

  Women!

  Then a week or so later it all finally boiled over when I was briefed to defend a lady by the name of Mary Real.

  You know, forty years ago in England murder by poison was all the rage. I myself handled a few briefs where I demonstrated the white powder had been used as an ‘inheritance-hastener.’ It was the poison of choice for women. Arsenic was easily available for innocent domestic purposes, of course, as a cosmetic, or wallpaper soaking, or rat eradication. But it was also used widely by women seeking to get rid of husbands or lovers, usually by hiding the white powder in food or drink. Things could be complicated because some men also used it occasionally as an aphrodisiac as well as a murder weapon: there were, as I recall, certain ingenious instances when the arsenic was administered anally – by way of an enema liquid – and even by inserting an arsenic-powdered finger into a woman’s cunny after coition as a farewell gift to an unwanted mistress. Indeed, there were rumours that the death of King Ladislas of Naples himself was caused by an enemy concealing arsenic in the king’s mistress’s vagina. Quite how the lady was persuaded to become an accomplice in this matter has always puzzled me, not least because in due course it killed her as well as the King, but there you are: women can be persuaded to do so many strange things if you use the right honeyed words. Perhaps the assassin persuaded her it would improve her complexion. Or her performance.

  I prosecuted the pharmacist-surgeon Palmer, of course, as I told you earlier, but he was one of the few exceptions: male poisoners were rare, and the use of poisons was regarded in England as a peculiarly female method of murder. What’s this got to do with Mary Real? Nothing, really. The fact is, Joe, she was made of different calibre: the subtle use of arsenic was not for her. There was nothing secretive about her despatch of her husband: she just flourished a pistol and shot him dead in public. Her husband, Peter Real, was a shopkeeper with a wandering eye. He kept a store at 256 Broadway where his wife Mary resided, but he also supported a mistress glorying in the name of Miss Dorothea Van Name. The suspicious Mary one day trailed him when he left the shop and saw him behaving in an intimate fashion with Miss Van Name, on the Jersey City ferry of all places. She went straight back to the store with her suspicions confirmed, obtained her husband’s pistol and when Peter returned she shot him stone dead.

  I was briefed for the defence and to me and the larger part of the public it was clear that this was a crime passionel – and I had no doubt that with my forensic eloquence I could get her off the murder charge.

  I said so to Marianne.

  She stunned me with her reply.

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  ‘What? I suppose so, but—’

  ‘No doubt that’s why you agreed to defend her! In so doing, do you intend dwelling upon the irresponsible behaviour of the dead man in order to get Mrs Real off the charge of murder?’

  Off balance for the moment, almost casually, I confirmed that would be my approach. ‘Naturally! I can sway the jury—’

  ‘And I suppose you intend to do so by pointing out the abominable behaviour of the dead man, the kind of behaviour for which you yourself have become notorious?’

  ‘Me? Notorious? I protest! Marianne, I really don’t know—’

  ‘Let me make one thing clear,’ my wife said icily. ‘If you enlarge in the courtroom upon the provocation given to Mary Real by her husband’s notorious liaison with Miss Van Name, I shall stand up in that same courtroom and publically denounce you for the same species of marital delinquency!’

  ‘This must be a joke!’

  ‘I am adamant!’

  ‘But we are talking about a woman accused of murder!’

  ‘There are some crimes more heinous than murder,’ she hissed venomously.

  ‘But why . . . what is this about . . . we had an arrangement—’

  ‘It did not include the frequenting of the infamous houses that you’ve been attending on the pretext it’s connected with your work. It did not include that actress woman you’ve become infatuated with!’ Her eyes were blazing. I knew she was deadly serious. ‘I shall be there in court, and if you fail to heed my warning, you shall face the consequences!’

  Of course I blustered, talked about the honour and responsibilities of my calling, pleaded with her to think of the unfortunate Mrs Real facing the executioner, but nothing I said made any impact. And she was there, right enough, on the opening day of the trial. Of course I roughly handled the witnesses presented by the prosecution, but Marianne had warned me in advance, and she did not keep her silence. Throughout my performance, when I attacked Miss Van Name with some ferocity, her loud muttering came to the attention of all those seated near her. It unnerved me, I can tell you, so much that when it was time to open the defence I thought it best to let my associate Tom Dunphy take the stage. The next three days were hell; tirades at home followed by caustic comments from the well of the court. I was forced to keep my head down, indulge in no flights of rhetoric and at the end I knew the defence was falling apart. At that point, in desperation, unable to speak of Peter Real’s reprehensible character and behaviour, I had no other choice than to change the line of defence, to one of temporary insanity on the part of my client. Even that did not save me. I made the error of using the phrase ‘profligacy with other women’. The disturbances from Marianne’s muttering became even greater and everyone seated near my wife was much entertained by her comments. I was not.

  The misery ended on the fifth day – five days I still shudder to look back upon. Mary Real was found guilty of murder in the third degree. Fortunately the jury, clearly feeling I had put forward a weak defence, made a recommendation to mercy.

  For me, there was no mercy, either from a critical press or my wife. When Mary Real went to prison in the Tombs, I had to get on with my next case, in which I had to touch upon the moral lapses of persons placed in high positions in New York society. The advocate facing me found himself the recipient of a deluge of anonymous notes suggesting certain events in my own life which he might use to telling effect. They came from Marianne.

  My wife was still staying at the Clarendon with Blanche. I had moved out. Life was becoming intolerable. In a letter to Adah I told her all about it. She advised me to go back to Marianne, make up the quarrel. Even she did not understand. Marianne was like an avenging angel.

  I knew the marriage was over, and that November Marianne filed for divorce, on the grounds of my adultery. I denied the charge, of course. But when the issue came up again in January 1863, she named some actresses I had become friendly with in the course of my work for the Clipper. She did not name Adah, probably because she thought Adah would give as good as she got. I was expected to put in an appearance to defend myself, denying the adultery. When the day came, I was not there and Judge Barnard gave her the decree she wanted; a vinculo matrimonii, freeing both of us from the bonds of marriage. Bonds indeed!

  My failure to appear that day was the result partly of my reluctance to expose myself in public to her vituperative tongue; I had also thought hard about the situation over the Christmas period. It was clear to me that there was little point in struggling to hang on to the marriage: the financial support had already been withdrawn by Marianne, and there was little likelihood it would be resumed. So I was cut free, and she and her n
ow smirking daughter could return to England, or France, or wherever they wished to resume their lives.

  But the more important reason for my non-appearance at the divorce court hearing was that I had been called to another meeting at the Union Club. Colonel Lafayette Baker had bounced back. It seemed Secretary of War Stanton could not do without his services. The Colonel was being reinstated.

  He sat there with a stiff whisky in his hand. He was now clean-shaven – as though to emphasize his determination on reinstatement – clear-eyed and confident. He gave me a flashing smile. ‘I am reinstalled as head of Intelligence. We have established a new unit: the National Detective Force. And I want you in Washington, Mr James. I want you linked up with Charles Di Rudio again – you worked well together here in New York. You can do so again.’

  ‘Washington? But why—’

  Baker smiled in grim satisfaction and his ferrety eyes narrowed. ‘I want you there, because a national emergency has arisen. And one of your theatre acquaintances is involved.’

  ‘A theatre acquaintance?’

  ‘Indeed. A man with whom you have trod the boards. One John Wilkes Booth.’

  ‘He’s involved? In what?’

  ‘It seems, my friend, there is a plot to kidnap the president!’

  PART 4

  1

  She was dead by the age of thirty-two, you know.

  Who? Not Marianne – she was a survivor! No, Adah Menken, of course.

  Shortly after my divorce in 1863, I saw Adah for the last time. It was not in pleasant circumstances. You could say she was somewhat addicted to marriage, though not divorce. She got married four times, it seems: first to the strait-laced Mr Menken, who objected to her smoking, then to my pugilist client J.C. Heenan, thirdly to the infatuated poet Robert Newell and finally to the rather shady Captain Barklay who turned out to be one of Colonel Lafayette Baker’s Secret Service agents, like me. Not that I was aware of it at the time.