Killigrew of the Royal Navy

by Jonathan Lunn

  ‘For the court, please.’

  ‘I saw him, all right. A moment later he almost ran me over, too, so I got a good look at his face.’

  ‘And can you see him in this courtroom today?’

  Mr Gubbins had a good look around. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Try again, Mr Gubbins. And I suggest you pay particular attention to the gentleman standing in the dock.’

  Gubbins peered at Killigrew. ‘No, sir. ’Tweren’t him. Definitely not.’ The counsel for the prosecution looked stunned; if he was not careful, thought Killigrew, he was going to lose this case. ‘He was there, all right, but he weren’t driving the gig. He—’

  ‘Just answer the question: yes or no,’ snapped the counsel for the prosecution.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I have no further questions for this witness, m’lud. May I respectfully request an adjournment?’

  ‘You may,’ said the judge. ‘And I shall respectfully decline it. Since the accused has already pleaded guilty, I really don’t see why this case should take more than a few minutes and I have a luncheon appointment at one. Does the defendant wish to cross-examine the witness?’

  ‘Yes, m’lud,’ said Killigrew, reflecting that when the accused had to help the prosecution prove their case it only went to show just how complete an ass the Law could be. ‘Mr Gubbins, have you ever drunk alcohol?’

  ‘I am an occasional imbiber, sir, but then who isn’t? I only ever drink when it’s cold, to keep the chill out.’

  ‘There are a great many pure-finders on the streets of London, are there not?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir!’

  ‘And not many dogs.’

  ‘Sadly, no, sir.’

  ‘So there must be a great deal of competition to find pure.’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. It can be quite a dog-eat-dog business.’

  ‘Which means you must have to get up very early in the mornings.’

  ‘Yes, sir. When it’s still dark.’

  ‘And still very cold at this time of year. So it would be natural for you to fortify yourself with a nip of something alcoholic before going out in the morning?’

  ‘Objection, m’lud!’ protested the counsel for the prosecution. ‘The defendant is putting words in the witness’s mouth.’

  ‘Since the defendant seems to be doing a better job of prosecuting your case than you are, I hope you won’t think me too harsh for overruling your objection,’ the judge said drily. ‘Continue, Mr Killigrew.’

  ‘Mr Gubbins, had any alcohol passed your lips on the morning of the fourteenth? And may I remind you that you are under oath.’

  ‘Well… maybe just a drop or two…’

  ‘Yes or no, Mr Gubbins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you. No further questions, m’lud.’ Killigrew resumed his seat.

  ‘Does the counsel for the prosecution have any further evidence it would like to present?’

  The prosecutor looked flustered. ‘No, m’lud.’

  ‘Very well. Mr Killigrew, is there anything you would care to say by way of a plea for mitigation?’

  Killigrew rose to his feet once more and read out his prepared statement.

  ‘I only wish to say that no matter how great a punishment you seek to impose on me, it will pall into insignificance beside the burden of guilt which now tortures my conscience; and that as a God-fearing Christian, I know I will receive my due punishment in the next life as well as in the present. Furthermore, I wish it to be known that I have now sworn off alcohol for the remainder of my days.’ He crossed his fingers behind his back before he said the last part.

  ‘Very well. The jury may now retire if it wishes to consider its verdict. In summation I can only draw attention to the fact that, despite the hesitancy of the prosecution’s sole witness, the accused has pleaded guilty, and I therefore direct you to find Mr Killigrew guilty as charged.’

  The jurymen briefly exchanged a few whispered words, and the foreman rose to his feet. ‘We have considered our verdict, m’lud.’

  ‘And how do you find the accused, guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘Guilty, m’lud.’

  ‘Christopher Iguatios Killigrew, this court finds you guilty as charged. In view of your hitherto blameless reputation, and the sterling work done by you in the service of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, this court does not consider that a custodial sentence will be appropriate in this instance. Fined fifty guineas.’ The judge banged his gavel like a salesman at an auction.

  As he walked out of the court, Killigrew felt almost as guilty as if he really had been responsible for the girl’s death. And meanwhile the man who had killed her was walking free, without any danger of ever being brought to justice. Of course, if Napier had not decided to take this opportunity, then it was unlikely that the man would have been in court; but all the same, Killigrew had been guilty of perverting the course of justice.

  Justice? After that farce, he was no longer sure what justice was. Fifty guineas, he thought bitterly. If he had been a member of the labouring classes he might have been given ten years’ hard labour, or transportation to New South Wales. So much for justice.

  He was just about to leave the courthouse when a young midshipman stopped him. ‘Lieutenant Killigrew, sir?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Red-faced, the midshipman said nothing more but merely handed him a letter. Killigrew noticed the Admiralty stationery at once. He ripped it open. The letter was polite but none the less curt: would Lieutenant Killigrew consider himself under open arrest until he presented himself to a court-martial to be held on board HMS Icarus at Deptford at ten hours ante meridian on Friday the seventh of May, yours faithfully, Vice-Admiral Lord Richardson, etc., etc. It was dated that very day; the letter must have been written the day before, and the midshipman given instructions to hand it to Killigrew as soon as a verdict of guilty was returned. ‘You may tell his lordship I’ll be there,’ he told the midshipman, who saluted and turned on his heel.

  Killigrew took a hansom to St James’s Square and bounded up the steps to his club. He went straight past the porter in his lodge who called after him. ‘Excuse me, sir? Letter for you.’

  Killigrew returned to the lodge to take the letter from him. He was about to tuck it inside his coat when the porter called after him once more. ‘I think you’d better read it now, sir.’

  The letter was from the secretary of the Army and Navy Club and written in the same polite, formal but curt tone as the letter from the Admiralty. Following an extraordinary meeting of the club’s executive committee it had been unanimously decided that Lieutenant Killigrew was no longer a fit and proper person to be a member of the club.

  ‘Your dunnage has already been packed, sir. I’ll fetch it for you now, shall I?’

  Dazed, Killigrew nodded. He had expected it, of course, but it still hit home. He had joined the Army and Navy as soon as he had been promoted to midshipman, but this was his first stay there and he had only been in residence a few days. Nonetheless, it was his only home and now that too had been taken away from him.

  He took his sea-chest and made his way to the White Horse Cellar Coaching Inn. From the looks he got there from the innkeeper and his wife, it was clear that news of his arrest and trial had spread with astonishing swiftness, and while the innkeeper was not too proud to have a disgraced naval officer living under his roof, he did not treat Killigrew with the same deference as he had done previously. Not that Killigrew cared for the deference; it was the civility he missed.

  To his complete lack of surprise he heard nothing from Eulalia over the next few days. He called on her at her father’s house in Knightsbridge on more than one occasion, but she was never in; or if she was, she was not receiving. Knowing that there would no longer be a place for him in her box at Her Majesty’s Theatre, he managed to get a dress circle ticket through the good grace of an opera dancer of his acquaintance in the hope that he would at least get a chance to speak to Eulalia. He was not sure what he was going to say t
o her. He did not want to tell her all the details of Napier’s plan, more because he did not want her to worry about him than because Napier had told him to tell no one. The force of the pang he had felt seeing her walk out of the courtroom had told him that he loved her; if he could not trust the woman he loved, whom could he trust?

  There were several people of his acquaintance in the gaslit finery of the theatre foyer when Killigrew arrived on the night; all of them studiously avoided meeting his gaze. Indeed, whichever way Killigrew turned, an avenue seemed to part through the crush for him. He tried to find the situation amusing, but could not.

  He was unable to find Eulalia and her party before the last bell rang, and went in to watch the opera. Jenny Lind’s singing was unquestionably delightful – for once Punch had got it right when they said that to call her the Swedish Nightingale was a compliment to the bird – but even her dulcet tones were not enough to distract Killigrew from his troubles. He was more concerned to speak to Eulalia, whom he could see seated in one of the boxes with her father, Tremaine, and several others Killigrew knew only vaguely. He studied her through his opera glasses – God, she looked lovelier than ever – but could not catch her eye as she concentrated on the stage.

  At last the first interval came and he made his way through the crush to the saloon. Many of the people in the boxes would remain there and have their drinks brought to them, but Killigrew guessed that Mr Pengelly and his daughter would prefer to stretch their legs and socialise with the other opera-goers in the saloon.

  He guessed correctly: he was standing by the bar when Eulalia entered with her friends. They were chatting gaily, Eulalia laughing at something Tremaine had said. Then they saw Killigrew and froze for a moment, before Eulalia abruptly led them off in another direction.

  Killigrew headed off through the crowd after them. ‘Eulalia! I need to talk to you, to explain! For God’s sake! Just a minute, that’s all I ask…’

  She did not even turn her head. Tremaine broke off from the group to block Killigrew’s path. ‘Damn it, Killigrew, I’d’ve thought that you of all people would have had the taste and decency to know better than to remind Society of Mrs Fairbody’s former connection with you.’

  ‘I just want to explain…’ Killigrew said desperately. ‘Can you at least give her a message from me?’

  ‘Oh, really! Stay away, damn you, or I’ll be forced to call you out.’

  ‘Then call me out!’ snarled Killigrew, knowing that he could beat Tremaine any time he pleased, with sabre or pistol.

  Tremaine knew it too. He blanched and backed away. Some instinct stopped Killigrew from following. Tremaine was right, of course, as far as he understood the situation, and Killigrew could hardly blame him for that. To have pressed the matter any further would have embroiled Eulalia in an ugly scandal, and that was the last thing he wanted.

  He returned to the bar, and when the third bell summoned the audience back to the auditorium he ordered another whisky. He was in no mood to sit through any more of Roberto il Diavolo. He was the only one left in the saloon when the second act began; a moment later Sir Joshua Pengelly entered surreptitiously, with an embarrassed look on his face. ‘Mr Killigrew?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I had to cut you dead earlier, but you understand…?’

  Killigrew nodded.

  ‘I’m dreadfully sorry about what happened. For you, I mean. You’re a good man, I know. You made a mistake, that’s all. I… I understand you’ve forsworn alcohol? I’m sorry there’s not much I can do for you now, but perhaps in a year’s time or so, when the scandal has died down, I can have you appointed as an officer on board one of my steamers…?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, sir, and I’d be honoured. But a year is a long time, and anything can happen in—’

  ‘Your whisky, sir,’ said the barman, placing a glass at Killigrew’s elbow.

  Killigrew shrugged sheepishly. ‘Force of habit,’ he said. ‘I meant to order soda water…’

  Pengelly just shook his head grimly, turned away with an expression of disgust and hurried back towards the auditorium.

  Killigrew finished his drink and went outside, dining alone in a chop-house – none of London’s more fashionable restaurants could find a table for him any more, even if he booked in advance. Even in the chop-house, he was aware of people nodding towards him and muttering to one another under their breath. He could imagine what they were saying: ‘That’s Lieutenant Killigrew, that is, the Pall Mall child-killer. You can tell he’s a villain just by looking at him – that swarthy complexion, a touch of the tar-brush in him, they say. Not really an English gentleman at all.’ Thanks to his mixed heritage he had had to put up with that kind of remark during his early days in the navy, and although he had not been troubled by such taunts in recent years he had no doubt they would all be dredged up and used to account for his sudden disgrace.

  He knew the opera was due to finish around half past ten and after he had paid his bill at the chop-house he found himself ambling back towards the theatre, he was not sure why. The Haymarket was crowded with prostitutes, lining up on the pavements like cabbies queuing for fares. Several of them called out to him – they at least were not too proud to accept the custom of the Pall Mall child-killer, he mused wryly – but he merely shook his head.

  ‘Killigrew?’

  He turned. It was Strachan. ‘Hullo, Mr Strachan. What are you doing here?’

  Strachan blushed. ‘Oh, just… er… taking the night air.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to be seen talking to the Pall Mall child-killer? Everyone else in Society is snubbing me these days, you know.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure that I qualify as a member of Society yet. What happened, Killigrew? The papers said you pleaded guilty to manslaughter.’

  Killigrew nodded. ‘It’s true.’

  ‘That you killed that girl? Or that you pleaded guilty?’ Strachan asked shrewdly. ‘I know you, Killigrew. That’s just not the kind of thing you’d do…’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you thought you did.’

  Strachan shook his head. ‘No. I may not be the brightest fellow on God’s earth, but I’ve always been a good judge of character. And I think there’s something deuced rum going on here. What happened? Were you framed?’

  Killigrew just shrugged. He was pleased that at least someone did not believe the pretence, even though he himself had confessed to the crime; he just wished it could have been Eulalia instead of Strachan.

  ‘Look, Killigrew, it’s obvious that whatever’s going on you don’t want to talk about it – or you can’t. That’s up to you. I just want you to know that anything I can do to help, just let me know. Money, a letter of recommendation, anything within my power. Here’s my card. Don’t hesitate to get in touch, all right?’ Strachan moved on, embarrassed by his own effusion, but Killigrew called after him.

  ‘Mr Strachan?’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Strachan shrugged. ‘You know what they say. A friend in need…’ He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

  A friend indeed, thought Killigrew, and then had to move quickly to avoid being engulfed as the patrons emerged from the theatre. He quickly took one of the hansoms waiting for trade before they were all snapped up. ‘Where to, guv?’

  ‘Do you mind if we just wait here a moment?’

  ‘I’ll have to charge you waiting time.’

  ‘Fine.’ Killigrew was more intent on the crowd than on what the cabbie was saying.

  A slatternly-dressed woman stood on the running board so she could thrust her bosom at him. ‘Looking for company, handsome?’

  ‘Yes, but not yours, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Impudence!’ The woman stepped back on to the pavement and turned to her friends. ‘Bleedin’ window-shopper.’

  Killigrew saw Eulalia emerge from the theatre with her friends. They said their goodbyes amongst the crowd, and then she got into a carr
iage with her father and Tremaine. ‘Follow that carriage,’ Killigrew ordered the cabbie. ‘But discreetly, if you please.’

  ‘All right, guv.’ The cabbie flicked the tip of his whip across his horse’s back and the hansom rattled off across the cobbles after the carriage as it headed up the Haymarket towards Piccadilly Circus.

  ‘Is that young lady your missus, then?’ the cabbie asked as they headed west along Piccadilly towards Hyde Park Corner. He evidently thought that Killigrew was a cuckold tracking his wife in the hope of catching her in flagrante delicto with her young escort.

  ‘Mind your own damned business,’ said Killigrew, seeing no reason to disabuse him of that notion.

  At last the carriage turned off Knightsbridge into the grounds of the Pengelly mansion. ‘Pull up just down the road,’ Killigrew told the cabbie, taking out his pocket telescope and squinting down the drive to where Eulalia and her father were climbing out of the carriage underneath the mansion’s portico. Killigrew was terrified that Tremaine would also get out and go inside with them, even though the rational part of his mind knew that that would be unthinkable. But the rational part of his mind was in abeyance that night, as his act in trailing Eulalia back to her home – and what he planned to do next – demonstrated.

  Tremaine did not get out of the carriage, which pulled back down the drive and out of the gate once more, heading back towards Mayfair. Killigrew waited until it was out of sight and then climbed out of the hansom, paid the cabbie his fare and tipped him generously. As the carriage rattled off into the night, Killigrew walked along the pavement until he came to the next turning and cut down a side street which looped around the back of the mansion. The street was unlit and deserted at that late hour, but Killigrew nonetheless looked about to make sure he was unobserved before he jumped up and grabbed hold of the top of the eight-foot-high brick wall which surrounded the grounds. His feet scrabbled against the brickwork, until at last he was able to haul himself over and drop down amongst the bushes on the other side.

  There were lights on at the back of the house, in the kitchen downstairs and on the landing above. Enough light filtered out to enable Killigrew to navigate his way across the lawn to the rear of the house. There were bars on the ground-floor windows and the only door led into the kitchen where Killigrew could see the cook making cocoa, but a stout iron drainpipe leading up to the guttering at the eaves provided easy access to a landing window on the first floor; easy, at least, for a vigorous young man who had spent a goodly part of his teenage years skylarking about the rigging of a man-o’-war. He stood on the stone window ledge and held on to the drainpipe with one hand to steady himself while with his other he took a clasp knife from his pocket and opened the blade. He eased it into the gap between the sash windows and slid the catch open. Then he pushed the sash up, slipped through and stepped lightly on to the landing.