Lies, Damned Lies, and History

by Jodi Taylor

  You’d think she would give up, wouldn’t you?

  Still nothing daunted, she picked up her skirts and ran again – again showing vast amounts of unattractive ankle and leg – back to the Abbey door in Poets Corner. Markham and I, knowing where she would go next, had already set off, and were in place when she turned up, purple-faced with the effort, her bosom escaping from her dress. She was followed by a jeering crowd who, although accustomed over the years to their royal family making arses of themselves in public, were not impressed at this very unroyal display. Caroline had crossed a line.

  I felt for her, awful though she was. She’d been publicly humiliated in front of all London. This story would fly around all Europe. If she had lived, she would have been a laughing stock wherever she went.

  Except she wouldn’t. Tonight – this very night – she would fall ill. No one was ever sure quite what ailment she was suffering from, but in three weeks, she would be dead. She would claim that at some point today, she’d been poisoned, and interestingly, her deathbed would be very closely observed by a man named Stephen Lushington, who was in the pay of Lord Liverpool, the prime minister of the day. The really sad thing was that she might well have been murdered. We’ll never know, and at the time, no one cared.

  But now, in front of me, Sir Robert Inglis was quietly attempting to persuade Caroline to leave.

  I began to ease my way through the crowd. Because there was something I wanted to see. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the princess. She was clasping both hands to her massive bosom, struggling to catch her breath. It was very apparent that she was never going to be allowed inside the Abbey. Sir Robert was speaking very politely and calmly, and while the prize-fighters and slammed doors had only made her more determined to gain entry, his respectful persuasion was beginning to have some effect on her.

  But what had caught my attention was a small smear of bright red blood on the back of her white glove. It was tiny. You could barely see it. It might not even be her blood. She could easily have brushed against someone. Or someone brushed against her. But suppose it was her blood. And tonight she would fall ill. And in three weeks, this inconvenient princess would be dead.

  I don’t know what Sir Robert said to her. Perhaps she was already beginning to feel unwell. The fight went out of her. I saw her shoulders slump. Even the feathers in her headdress were drooping. Three rough-looking pageboys led her quietly past the jeering people, and she heaved into her carriage. Defiant to the end, she waved to the unimpressed crowd, and was driven away.

  I couldn’t help recalling an unkind verse that circulated about her.

  Most gracious Queen, we thee implore

  To go away and sin no more.

  Or if the effort be too great

  To go away at any rate.

  Markham and I took a moment to pull ourselves together ready for the next part of the assignment. The king himself.

  Markham wiped the sweat from his face. I checked my recorder and took some footage of the area around the Abbey. We found a reasonably good position at the West Door and waited patiently for the procession to make its way from Westminster Hall, because we knew the king would be late.

  In the 19th century, there were no crush barriers or any form of crowd control and everyone just milled happily about, enjoying themselves. The streets were full of carriages trying to get past, cabs and carts tangled with pedestrians, harassed officials, beggars and spectators.

  Drivers swore at the crowd, who happily swore back again. The hot day was filled with the sights and sounds of overheated horses and people. The smell was ripe to say the least.

  The noise was tremendous – people shouting, carriage wheels rattling over the paving, a band playing somewhere. The crowd was too thick for me to see them, but I could hear dogs barking all around us. I made a note to check whether London contained packs of feral dogs during this time period.

  Word went out that the procession had begun to make its way from Westminster Hall, and people around us began to stand on tiptoe and crane their necks.

  We passed the time discreetly recording the important people arriving. Everyone looked hot and harassed. George himself had designed their costumes, which were based on Elizabethan and Stuart design. He’d missed his calling. Never mind being king – he should have been a party planner.

  The procession was preceded by a group of young women with baskets and I was pleased to see they kept up the medieval tradition of strewing the king’s path with herbs as a prevention against the plague.

  We watched the Crown Jewels and all the coronation regalia parade into the Abbey. It was almost worth being here just to see the massively long Great Sword of State. A couple of bishops followed on behind. I had no idea which ones – one bishop looks very like another to me, but someone would be able to identify them.

  There was a lull. All around me, everyone was straining for the first sight of the king. Word had got around that he would be late. Apparently, he tore something just as he was leaving and being George, he’d had a bit of a panic.

  We were bumped and jostled a little, but everyone was very good-natured, and the air of anticipation was building.

  Finally, here he came. Sumptuously dressed, obese and oddly impressive. Everything about him was completely over the top. His train was nearly thirty feet long with beautifully intricate golden embroidery. Tall, white feathers nodded in his hat. The crowd fell silent, craning their necks for a better view. Men removed their hats. Women curtseyed as he passed. He was fat. He was unpopular. He’d wasted a fortune on this day – but as he walked past them, the crowds fell silent out of respect. He was their king and, at this moment, he wasn’t ridiculous at all.

  I was hot in my skimpy summer frock. Markham must have been baking, and George, surely, would burst into flames at any moment now. To ensure everyone had the opportunity to admire his splendid get-up, the silly juggins had instructed his canopy to follow along behind him, so he was exposed to the full blast of sunshine. His round, red, jowly face was streaming with sweat. He carried a silk handkerchief in one hand, with which he alternately mopped his faced and flourished at the crowd. Even as I stared, an attendant whisked it away and replaced it with a fresh one.

  It was quite sad really, because in his youth, apparently, he had been a bit of a poster boy. There was now no trace of the dashing young prince. Except in his own memory, anyway. I thought he looked like a petulant baby with his protruding eyes and tiny, rosebud mouth, but he was very good-natured. He turned and waved at the people, who, with typical crowd mentality, cheered and waved at the man they had previously hissed and booed on every possible occasion. He knew how to work a crowd and even I found it hard to believe this was the man who had mistreated his wives, betrayed his friends, and been involved in every scandal imaginable.

  He paused outside the Abbey. His pageboys – real ones this time – got his thirty-foot-long train sorted out. I could hear his oddly high-pitched voice instructing them to hold it wider so that everyone could see the exquisite golden embroidery, and then, to a fanfare of trumpets, and with one last wave to the crowd, he entered the Abbey, to be crowned George, by the Grace of God, King of Great Britain and Ireland and of Hanover.

  Around us, a hush fell as the fanfare died away and the last of the procession followed him in.

  ‘Well,’ I said to Markham – and you’d really think I’d know better by now – ‘that went well.’

  Hardly were the words out of my mouth than a portly man, red-faced in the heat, and trying to attract the attention of someone I couldn’t see, barged into me, and knocked my recorder right out of my hand.

  Normally, I have it looped around my wrist, just in case this does happen. I don’t know why I didn’t that day. I heard it hit the cobbles.

  I tried to see where it went. I heard it again – being kicked along the ground. It was only a matter of time before someone trod on it and then I’d be in trouble.

  I thought I saw it and bent forwards, trying to pee
r through people’s legs. The crowd was dispersing and everyone was milling around, collecting family and friends, and moving in a million different directions at once. Someone caught me a glancing blow and down I went.

  I heard Markham yell, ‘Max.’

  I ignored the splendid opportunity for a closer inspection of the filth-encrusted cobbles and rolled into a ball as feet and legs jostled past me.

  I heard him again. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Here.’ I was struggling to get up, ungracefully showing at least as much leg as the soon to be late Princess of Wales.

  ‘Yes, that’s very helpful. A little more information, please.’

  ‘Now then, m’dear,’ said a voice, and a large pink hand pulled me to my feet. ‘Give the lady some room,’ he roared and people did.

  I came up, bonnet askew, dignity still in the gutter I’d so recently occupied. Smoothing down my clothing as best I could, and trying not to think of what Mrs Enderby would say when she saw I’d been sweeping the streets with her blue silk creation, I said, ‘Thank you, sir. I am much obliged to you for your kindness.’

  Markham arrived, flushed and breathless.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  I nodded. The large man, dressed in a blue serge double-breasted coat that made his broad chest look even broader, frowned severely in a way that implied Markham should be taking better care of me, touched his hat and departed.

  ‘I’ve dropped my recorder,’ I said, panicking like mad because it could be anywhere by now.

  ‘Right,’ said Markham, staring around. ‘No one’s likely to have seen it, let alone picked it up, so the worst that can have happened is that it’s been trampled. Dr Bairstow will frown at you but nothing worse than that.’

  ‘We must find it,’ I said, barely listening.

  ‘Yes, we must, but try to stay on your feet this time. People will think you’ve been at the gin.’

  ‘Oh, if only.’

  He took my arm firmly. ‘You look left. I’ll look right.’

  ‘It’s not here. I heard it being kicked along the street.’

  The crowds were thinning slightly. The ceremony itself would last six hours so most people were disappearing in search of entertainment, refreshment and a quiet corner where they could have a pee. Public toilets hadn’t turned up yet, so most people either splashed against a wall or crouched in the street. Where I’d recently been. I really wished I hadn’t just thought of that.

  We were both lucky and unlucky.

  Lucky, because against all the odds, we found it.

  And unlucky, because as we hastened towards it, some ten or twelve feet away, someone else got there first.

  Chapter Three

  He was hatless and his long, lank hair hung around his face. He wore some sort of full-length, greasy greatcoat that smelled musty even from here. As I watched, he bent over and picked up my battered but still intact recorder, turning it over in his hands.

  I stiffened.

  Markham let go of my arm and strolled towards him.

  ‘Ah, sir, I see you have found it. My thanks.’

  The man said nothing, staring at us suspiciously. Even though Dr Bairstow would kill me, I really hoped it was broken, because any moment now he would accidentally activate it, and we’d be projecting a ten-foot-high image of Princess Caroline’s bosom across the nearest building, and that really would take some explaining away.

  The man, showing bad skin and worse teeth, stared at Markham for a moment and took to his heels.

  Bollocks.

  ‘Go,’ I said to him. ‘I’ll follow. Keep your com open.’

  He disappeared into the crowd and I followed as best I could. I could hear Markham puffing and cursing as I eased my way through. People here weren’t as polite as they had been at the Abbey. When I looked down, my lovely dress was smeared down the front with nasty-looking brown stains. With that and my tipsy bonnet, I probably looked like one of those Hogarth engravings depicting the working-class poor and their close relationship with the demon drink.

  The crowds were thinning. They’d probably headed towards the river, because who wouldn’t want to see a herd of wooden elephants being propelled up the Thames? I’d looked forward to that myself.

  I set my back against a wall, fanned myself, got my breath back, and said quietly, ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I must be about a hundred yards ahead of you. He’s turning into an alley. There’s a barrowman selling something or other on the corner. I’ve got him now.’

  ‘For God’s sake be careful. Hunter gets really upset with me when I take you back in pieces.’

  No reply.

  Again – bollocks.

  I set off, keeping my eyes peeled for trouble.

  I found the barrowman easily enough, skidded around a corner, and stopped dead, because I’d just entered another world.

  The wide streets, stone buildings, well-dressed people, all the signs of a prosperous metropolis, had disappeared as if they had never existed. Even the sunshine had vanished. The sights and sounds of this special day died away. Here was darkness and silence.

  This little lane was no more than ten feet across at its widest point. Buildings – I couldn’t call them houses – rose up on either side. They weren’t tall but they leaned across the narrow space like old ladies putting their heads together for a bit of a gossip. They cast long, deep shadows across the lane, which despite the summer heat, was a quagmire. The ground had long since been covered over with filth, sewage, household waste, animal waste, mud and rotting straw, all of which had built up over the years, making the street level now considerably higher than the doorways. Every time it rained, all this evil smelling sludge must have run straight back into the houses again. Probably to a considerable depth.

  And being upstairs wouldn’t be much more pleasant. Few roofs were tiled and none looked waterproof. Or even safe. Windows were tiny and many were shuttered tight. There was no glass. The walls were covered in damp, slimy stains that streaked down from the broken gutters, with similar stains working their way up from the swamp in which the houses stood. When the two united, the buildings would probably fall down.

  The smell was awful. Industrial London was just kicking off, but the infrastructure lagged far behind. Living conditions for the poor were appalling. There was little access to clean water and no sewers. The rivers of London ran brown with filth. For many people, disease, poverty, and despair were the only things not in short supply.

  I heard a noise nearby, pulled my stun gun out of my reticule, and moved silently along one damp wall.

  There they were. Two dim shapes struggling in a doorway. I opened my mouth to shout ‘Hoi’ and wade in to help – literally – when someone grabbed me from behind and tried to seize my reticule.

  I said piteously, ‘Oh pray sir, do not rob me,’ spun around and zapped him.

  I heard Markham shout, ‘Max,’ and then there was the sound of another body hitting the ground. I panicked all over again because although Hunter could get very nasty when I took him back injured, it was nothing to what she would do if I took him back dead.

  I was worrying unnecessarily. He strolled out of the shadows, holding my battered recorder.

  ‘Amazingly, it still works.’

  I took it from him. ‘Thank you. You all right?’

  ‘Just a small knife wound.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said, breezily. ‘It’s literally just a scratch, and truthfully, Max, I’m wearing so many layers of clothing, you’d have to fire a siege weapon at me to penetrate this lot.’

  He was bleeding from a long, shallow scratch on the back of his hand. I pulled out a handkerchief and bound him up, enquiring when he’d last had a tetanus shot.

  ‘No idea,’ he said, ‘but Hunter’s always sticking me with something, so I’m not too worried. Don’t forget to tell her how heroic I was, will you.’

  We emerged from the alley, straightening our clothing as we did so, and a pass
ing clergyman in his gaiters and wide-brimmed hat got hold of completely the wrong end of the stick, threw us an accusatory stare, and slowed down. Oh God, we were going to be Saved.

  We all stared at each other. I couldn’t think of anything to say. The clergyman was rummaging through his pockets. Were we going to be Pamphleted as well?

  It was Markham who, as he said afterwards, saved the day.

  Thrusting me forwards, he said, ‘Very nice girl, yer honour. Very clean. Very skilled. And, already up the duff, so no problems with any little members of the clergy knocking on your door in years to come, if you take my drift. Now then, sir, always happy to oblige the clergy, so for you today, special prices. For services involving manual dexterity and …’

  The clergyman’s mouth opened and closed as he struggled to find words to describe our moral depravity and then, hearing more voices approaching and possibly afraid of people mistaking the situation for exactly what it was, he turned on his heel and strode rapidly down the street. Markham politely lifted his hat to his departing back.

  I thumped his arm. ‘You’re pimping me out now?’

  ‘Well, I did my best and actually, Max, I think I was winning him over at the end. If you’d just exerted yourself to look a little more attractive, we’d probably have some spending money by now.’

  I hit his other arm. ‘He’s probably gone for the authorities.’

  He sighed. ‘Great. Another century I can never come back to. And look at the state of you.’

  ‘We’ll just say I fell down.’

  ‘Yeah – because pregnant women falling over is never a cause for concern.’