They All Love Jack

by Bruce Robinson

  No deal, but the visitors just couldn’t keep away. Apparently Anderson was in complete ignorance of any of them. Dipping his pen for one of his more extravagant lies, he wrote: ‘Scotland Yard had no part whatever in the conduct of the case. I had never received even a hint that the government wished me to assist The Times, and I had never been as much as asked a question as to what I knew of the matters involved in the enquiry.’

  Meanwhile, Chief Inspector Bro John George Littlechild, head of Special (Irish) Branch and thus second in seniority only to Anderson himself, had paid his rail fare and was on his way to Chatham jail. If Anderson hadn’t authorised it, we must assume that Littlechild got out of bed one morning and, for reasons best known to himself, decided to pop down to Chatham to have a go at trying to bribe John Daly. Obviously this impulse had come into his head via some sort of telepathic transmutation. He’d been subject to the phenomenon on various occasions, with a variety of Irish prisoners.

  The room selected for his Chatham visit was made cosy with a blazing fire, a pint of whisky on the table, and Littlechild playing uncle at the other side of it. What was left of Daly was escorted in, and the man from the Yard came to his purpose: ‘They’ve sent me down to see you,’ he said, doubtless offering a slug of Scotch, ‘to give you a chance of appearing in the witness box for The Times.’ He didn’t specify who ‘they’ were, but Daly wanted nothing to do with them or their newspaper, and responded by heading for the door. ‘Wait,’ insisted Littlechild, gesturing back to the chair. ‘Sit down and let us talk things over.’

  Daly sat and listened to a predictable supplication on behalf of those who’d put him where he now was. ‘Here you are,’ reasoned the friendly copper, ‘associated with the worst class of criminals, treated worse than they are, shut out from God’s free air and sunshine, and yet you propose to spend the rest of your life here? You may not be aware of it, but you are merely a tool in the hands of others, others on the outside with plenty of money in their pockets, thinking no more of you and your sufferings than if you were a disgrace to them.’

  In evident indifference to the cruelty of his pitch, the Inspector went on to conjure up an unnecessary picture of the miseries of prison life, contrasting it with the joys of freedom, and ending up by proclaiming Daly an ‘infernal fool’ if he didn’t avail himself of the opportunity now offered for release.

  ‘You know my answer.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Littlechild, retrieving his unopened bottle. ‘When you go back to your cell and think things over, you’ll probably change your mind. If you do write to me, the Governor will give you a pen, ink and paper.’ Bidding his farewell, he made a most intriguing remark that remains a mystery to this day. ‘Scotland Yard will find me,’ he said. It must have been a slip of the tongue. After all, his boss had repeatedly assured anyone craven enough to believe it that Scotland Yard had nothing whatever to do with The Times.

  Anderson wasn’t chosen as chief of CID by accident, but because of his qualifications. He was a ‘professional liar’ and a moral degenerate, and John Daly was a man of infinitely more virtue than the entirety of those abetting his persecution. This noble Irishman was to remain Her Majesty’s prisoner for another ten years.

  Those less choosy over whose coin they took were presently lining up wholesale on behalf of the Commission, the business of which was now in full odorous bloom. Week in and week out the judges heard from whoever the authorities could gather. A majority came from the Irish countryside, some stammering their evidence in Gaelic. The Hibernians had been temporarily redesignated as allies. It didn’t matter much what they said, as long as Bro Richard Webster and his acolytes could manipulate it into condemnation of the Land League, and better still of Parnell. ‘In truth’, declared the Liberal MP John Morley, the whole despicable construct was ‘designed for the public outside the court, and not a touch could be spared that might deepen the odium’.

  But no matter how they argued it, it was Ireland as always that emerged as the ultimate victim. On 9 November 1888, the day Mary Kelly entered the realms of ‘insoluble mystery’, a correspondent for the Daily News concluded his report with: ‘Lawyers may wrangle and differ, but underneath all their differences lies this fact, which none can dispute – that Ireland is wretched, miserable, demoralised, sick unto death. This is a legal trial, and it is also a history of a people, one of the dreariest, saddest histories in the world. And when one listens to it, one feels with something like despair, how little Englishmen know of this mournful island, which is only twelve hours’ journey from London.’

  All too aware of his nation’s plight, Parnell paid small attention to any of it. It was a ‘show trial’ on behalf of spiteful Wealth, worthy of any rotten dictatorship. To the annoyance of his counsel and fellow Irishman Sir Charles Russell, Parnell rarely visited the court. He knew none of it had any significance in comparison to the issue of the forged letters, and despite Webster’s obfuscation and verbiage through fifty-three sessions, he knew that at last they would have to come to them.

  On 21 February 1889 a court usher called the name Richard Pigott. This was the only name Parnell had been waiting for. In attendance that day, it must have been with a certain satisfaction that he watched Russell do what he had declined to do on behalf of Mrs Maybrick. He destroyed Pigott with a forensic onslaught that left the prosecution in pieces. The inquisition continued for two days, and was apparently torturous to watch. ‘Some miscalled the scenes drastic,’ wrote Morley. That is hardly the right word for the merciless ‘hunt of an abject fellow creature through the windings of a thousand lies’.

  Pigott had run out of lies to tell, and the only thing that came out of his face was sweat. Once the government’s greatest asset, he had become its greatest liability. Every question tore through the falsehoods and into the conspiracy itself. He had to be shut up. A third day of interrogation was scheduled, but when his name was called, there was no answer. Pigott had disappeared.

  There was champagne in the Parnell camp and almost universal press condemnation for The Times – excepting of course from The Times itself. Attempting to present itself as a fellow victim, it wriggled in the ooze: ‘Our desire is simply to express deep regret for the error into which we were led.’ It unconditionally withdrew the forged letters, ‘which we cannot continue to maintain’. A curt apology was issued in court by Bro Webster that in its meanness of spirit did nothing to lessen the condemnation from Fleet Street. Reynold’s News published a lengthy denunciation that in tone might serve for all:

  With the flight of Pigott and the downfall of The Times’ huge superstructure of fraud and villainy, the real work of the Commission has only begun. Behind Houston, who hired the forger, are a number of men who determined to ruin the political party to whom they were antagonistic and who stopped at nothing to compass their shameful ends. These men must not be allowed to skulk behind while their tools are being made the scapegoats. Who would care to see Pigott or Houston in the dock if their high-placed, titled, and wealthy employees are allowed to go scot-free?

  The invective swells through further furious paragraphs:

  This is no ordinary offence. It was an impeachment by one of the leading journals of the country, backed by the government, and warmly supported by one of the great parties of the state. It was made with every pomp and circumstance that the support of the government could give it, and the legal officials of the state were permitted against all precedent to press it home. Behind it are men of great wealth, some of whom are associated with it in responsibility for this gigantic fraud …

  Pigott’s escape from London was apparently baffling to both the police and press alike: ‘How the author of the forged Parnell letters managed to slip past the surveillance and vanish, not only from London, where he was known by all, but from England without trace, is a total mystery.’ Or if you prefer, the continuation of a conspiracy. Pigott was too dangerous a mouth to remain in the metropolis, so Anderson let him go, Scotland Yard facilitating his exit. Only a d
ay before, two Irish detectives had stood before the Commission and sworn on oath that they were ‘protecting Pigott’. What happened to these guardians of justice? Maybe they’d had a Guinness too many, and didn’t notice the most recognisable crook in London tiptoe out of his hotel’s front door.

  Pigott should have been more cautious of the friends he chose. He was now in a dangerous wonderland. On the afternoon of 1 March 1889 he was shot dead in a hotel room in Madrid. Dates in respect of this event are crucial. On Sunday, 3 March, Reynold’s News published the following report:

  Reynold’s Newspaper Office, Saturday 4 a.m.

  Reuters Telegrams, Etc

  REPORTED ARREST AND SUICIDE OF PIGOTT

  Madrid, [Friday] March 1st

  This afternoon the police went to the hotel des Ambassadeurs for the purpose of arresting an Englishman who had arrived there, and who gave the name of Roland Ponsonby. The officers entered his room, and took him into custody; but taking advantage of a moment when the attention of his custodian was diverted the man drew a revolver, and shot himself in the head. Death was instantaneous. The cause of the arrest is not stated, but it is believed that it was effected under an extradition warrant.

  Madrid, March 1st, 11.30 p.m.

  It is believed that the so called Roland Ponsonby was no other than Mr Richard Pigott. He arrived from Paris yesterday morning [Thursday, 28 February], and was accosted at the railway station by the hotel interpreter, who eventually conducted him to the Hotel des Ambassadeurs. Here he gave his name as Roland Ponsonby. Acting under instructions from the authorities, a police inspector went to the hotel at five this afternoon, and was taken to Mr Ponsonby’s room, an interpreter accompanying him. The Englishman came out and asked what was the object of the inspector’s visit. The interpreter explained that the officer had come to arrest him. The Englishman thereupon asked permission to fetch his hat and went into his bedroom where he opened a bag. Taking out a revolver, he pointed it at his mouth and fired. He fell to the ground and was found to be quite dead.

  He was very dead indeed, and here’s where it starts to get a little sinister. On the day before his ‘suicide’, Thursday, 28 February, The Times itself had reported:

  THE ABSCONDING OF PIGOTT

  At midnight last night the police had not succeeded in tracing the whereabouts of Pigott. A news agency says that there is very little doubt that the fugitive made his way to Paris, where he stayed but a short time, afterwards proceeding to some other part of the Continent calculated to conceal him better.

  It was later discovered that Pigott left Paris on an overnight train, arriving in Madrid about eight o’clock on the morning of Thursday, 28 February, and checked in as reported to the Hotel des Ambassadeurs (also known as the Hotel de los Embajadores). On that same day he is purported to have sent a telegram to a lawyer in London called Mr Shannon, which immediately found its way into the hands of The Times’s legal heavy, Mr Soames. The Times of 4 March 1889 reported the proceedings:

  It is stated that on Thursday afternoon [28 February] a telegram was received by Mr Shannon as follows:– ‘Please ask Mr S. to send me what you promised, and write to Roland Ponsonby, Hotel Embajadores, Madrid.’

  Immediately upon its receipt Mr Soames telegraphed to Chief Inspector Littlechild as follows:– ‘Have news for you. Call at once.’

  Littlechild personally called on Soames that day, and The Times’s solicitor handed him the telegram received by Shannon:

  At the same time Inspector Littlechild requested Mr Soames not to disclose to any person, under any circumstances, the receipt or the contents of the telegram, lest the ends of justice should be defeated … [My emphasis.]

  Rather than replying by telegram, Inspector Littlechild asked that ‘a letter should be sent, with the object of detaining Pigott in Madrid until he could be arrested’.

  Twenty-four hours later Pigott was dead, and it is here The Times’s story begins to disintegrate. Let me ask, and try to answer, a few questions. If Pigott had vanished from Paris and arrived in Madrid on the morning of 28 February, how by the following day did the Spanish police know more about his location than the British? The only policeman in England who knew of Pigott’s whereabouts was Littlechild, and he wanted them kept a closely guarded secret, requesting Soames, according to Soames himself, not to disclose them ‘to any person, under any circumstances’. Littlechild said nothing about informing the Spanish police, rather the opposite: he wanted a letter sent as a delaying tactic, since it would take two or three days to reach Madrid.

  So the question is worth repeating. If Pigott’s address and alias were known only to Littlechild (via the telegram received on 28 February), how did the Spanish police come by this secret information the following day, 1 March? How did the Spanish policeman know that ‘Roland Ponsonby’ was Richard Pigott? And what precisely was this Iberian copper supposed to be arresting ‘Roland Ponsonby’ for? Pigott’s alias was as yet unknown beyond Littlechild and Soames. Reuters reported on Friday, 1 March that the arrest was believed to have been ‘effected under an extradition warrant’. In which case it would have been made out in the wrong name, and miraculously procured overnight. By whom was it supposedly issued, and in respect of what country? I claim no knowledge of the procedures of extradition, but common sense suggests that this ‘document’ is a figment of someone’s imagination. It is true that an extradition treaty existed between Spain and England – signed, as fate would have it, on 22 January 1889, a mere five weeks and two days before Pigott pitched up in Madrid. But as I understand it, extradition can be a protracted process, requiring at a minimum the name of the country in which the person sought has taken refuge, and that person’s correct name. Both were supposedly Littlechild’s secret.

  The question of how the ‘Spanish’ police were so quick off the mark is inexplicable, except to The Times. With its usual predilection for making things up, it attempted on 7 March to dismiss the conundrum with a revisionary bit of twaddle that wouldn’t persuade a cartload of imbeciles:

  A great deal has been said about the extraordinary activity of the Madrid police in discovering and effecting the ‘capture’ of the deceased in so short a time after his arrival [in Madrid]. As a matter of fact no such discovery was made at all, and no search was necessary. A full description of Pigott and the name under which he was staying and his exact address, was telegraphed from the Foreign Office to the British Embassy, with instructions to the effect, that if a man staying at the Hotel de los Embajadores, under the name of Ponsonby answered the description given, Sir Clair Ford should ask the Spanish authorities for that man’s provisional arrest according to the custom in such cases.

  What custom, in what such cases? The treaty had been ratified only thirty-seven days before – hardly time to establish a ‘custom’. We’re asked to swallow that the Foreign Office telegraphed Madrid on the very afternoon (28 February 1889) that Littlechild had issued his fervent plea to Soames ‘not to disclose to any person, under any circumstances, the receipt or the contents of the telegram’. If we’re to believe The Times of 7 March, it means Soames paid no attention whatsoever to Littlechild, and contacted the Foreign Office as soon as the bastard walked out the door.

  There are two conflicting reports to consider, and I believe neither. I don’t think Scotland Yard needed a telegram from Madrid to know where Pigott was, because I think they knew all the time, and these Times articles are a shoddy camouflage.

  I stay with The Times, because if this scandal belongs to anyone it is to that newspaper and Scotland Yard. The paper’s official history states unequivocally that it was ‘Anderson’s emissaries’ who caught up with Pigott at the Hotel de los Embajadores on 1 March 1889. There is no mention of ambassadors, interpreters or Spanish policemen, which I consider all so much invented crap. Given The Times’s topical reputation and felonious association with Scotland Yard, I prefer to believe the dispassionate accounts of the Spanish press. Therein the ‘mysteries’ of how Pigott managed to escape his po
lice guards in London, and of how Anderson’s detectives were able to arrive with such jet-propelled velocity in Madrid, are simply explained.

  On 3 March 1889 a Spanish newspaper called La Vanguardia wrote: ‘Pigott was being followed by two officers of the English Secret Service and one from the Irish police. The latter was staying, for good measure, at the same hotel as Pigott.’ Thus Anderson’s emissaries didn’t need a tip-off directing them to Madrid. They were already there. I can conceive of no reason for a Spanish newspaper to make this up. What I believe was made up was The Times’s contradictory tale about Littlechild on the one hand, and the British Ambassador on the other. The British police had no authority to arrest Pigott in a foreign country, hence the invention of the unnamed and never subsequently questioned Spanish cop. Whatever Anderson’s detectives were in Madrid for, it couldn’t have been to make an arrest. In my view it’s implausible that secret service agents would allow some random Spaniard and his interpreter to breeze into Pigott’s hotel room. I give no credibility to this ‘suicide’.