The Petticoat Men

by Barbara Ewing

  Ma whispered to me, ‘That’s their defence lawyers done this.’

  I nodded. But what I was thinking was, I hope I never have to hear anything about Freddie’s bottom ever again.

  No sign still of Lord Arthur Clinton. No sign of Mr Gibbings. Ma said in her dry way: ‘So much for noblemen.’

  ‘Is Mr Gibbings a nobleman?’

  ‘I’ve heard he has some vague connection.’

  There were more witnesses called. I was still looking around for the Senior Master of the Court of Common Pleas while we heard about Ernest being in Scotland: tales told, all the men who seemed besotted by him, letters read out. Soppy letters to Ernest.

  And then there were two more letters read out. They weren’t to Ernest. Or from Ernest.

  These letters were from Freddie to Lord Arthur Clinton.

  At first I actually thought there must have been some sort of mistake, they weren’t written by Freddie, they couldn’t have been, well they didn’t sound like Freddie, not the Freddie I knew and it made everything sound – different than I thought it was. And when Mr Poland read the letters out he had a snarky way with his voice, well his voice was already snarky and it got even worse when he was reading out letters. From Freddie.

  My dearest Arthur,

  How very kind of you to think of me on my birthday. I require no remembrance of my sister’s husband, as the many kindnesses he has bestowed upon me will make me remember him for many a year and the birthday present he is so kind as to promise will only be one addition to the heap of little favours I already treasure up. So many thanks for it dear old man. I cannot echo your wish that I should live to be a hundred, though I should like to live to a green old age. Green, did I say? O! ciel, the amount of paint that will be required to hide that very unbecoming tint. My campish undertakings are not at present meeting with the success they deserve. Whatever I do seems to get me into hot water somewhere; but n’importe, what’s the odds as long as your-rappy? Believe me, your affectionate sister-in-law, once more with many, many thanks,

  Fanny Winifred Park

  I could feel Ma looking at me but I didn’t look at her, as well as not looking at Freddie. Somehow the letter wasn’t the same as dressing up for a lark. And what came to me suddenly in that dusty old court was the glittering, excited – dangerous – look in Freddie’s eyes when he – when he rushed off somewhere. But Mr Poland raised his hand – there was a lot of talking excitedly in the court – and began to read the second one, I dont know blooming well why they had to read out more like that, and everyone went quiet again.

  My dearest Arthur,

  You must really excuse me from interfering in matrimonial squabbles (for I am sure the present is no more than that); and although I am, as you say, Stella’s confidante in most things, that which you wish to know she keeps locked up in her own breast. She may sometimes treat you brusquely; but, on the other hand, how she stands up for your dignity of position. As to all the things she said to you the other night, she may have been tight, and did not know all she was saying; so that by the time you get my answer you will both be laughing over the whole affair, as Stella and I did when we quarrelled and fought down here – don’t you remember, when I slapped her face? Do not think me unkind, dear, as really I have told you all I know, and have not an opinion worth having to offer you…

  Ever yours,

  Fan

  ‘I dont think Freddie could have written that,’ I whispered into Ma’s ear.

  Ma looked at me with that exasperated look she has sometimes. But there must have been something in my face that stopped what she meant to say, and she said something else. ‘It seemed like a kind letter,’ said Ma to me. ‘He was trying to cheer Lord Arthur.’

  I was having trouble saying words.

  ‘We – we only knew part of their lives, Ma.’

  She looked at me so surprised. ‘Of course, Mattie!’ she said. ‘Did you never understand that?’

  I hadn’t, not really, understood that. I thought 13 Wakefield-street was the important part.

  When we came out of the court that day there was a poem fixed on to one of the walls near by:

  There was an old person of Sark

  Who buggered a pig in the dark

  The swine in surprise

  Murmured, ‘God bless your eyes

  Did you take me for Boulton or Park?’

  We walked home. Not speaking hardly at all. But Ma, comforting, as she held my arm in hers. A carriage went rushing past us up by Gray’s Inn Road and we had to jump out of the way and I was slow because of my leg and I looked up to shout at it. And I saw Lord Arthur Clinton, sitting right back inside it, he must’ve been pushed forward when the coach swerved past us, he was right by my eyes for a moment and then quickly sat back.

  It was hot again in the night that night, hot and stuffy, as if a big thunderstorm might come. I lay awake again, all that awful old lying awake in the darkness as if I was mad, my sister’s husband… your loving sister-in-law… and probably I had made a mistake about Mr Park and been even more stupid, there was an old person of Sark who buggered a pig in the dark did you take me for Boulton and Park, my thoughts going round and around, and stupid tears on the blanket as if I was a little girl like when Pa died.

  And Jamey.

  (There. I’ve writ down his name.)

  I know I sound sometimes in this story like a stupid person, but I’m not a stupid person.

  Finally, I understood.

  I wasn’t crying about the poem, although I couldn’t get it out of my head, buggered a pig in the dark did you take me for Boulton or Park. Or even about what the newspapers said. What I was crying about was my dream that I’d kept going through the whole trial, whatever was said. I’d made up a whole dream. Me and Freddie and our little family and my love even though I wasn’t a real lady I’d be standing beside him and changing him and he would love me too because I was so strong, and he wasn’t like Ernest, not really.

  Go on go on write it down.

  I was crying because the letters from Freddie to Lord Arthur Clinton had somehow hurt me – I know I know, they were nothing at all to do with me, but they were in a way – because then I knew that the Freddie in my dream wouldn’t write that kind of letter and so the Freddie in my dream wasn’t real but somebody I made up. I wasn’t thinking about the real Freddie. I had really been thinking about myself. And despite all the evidence I’d kept hearing, it was hearing the letters read out that made me understand at last how far away I was from Freddie’s real life, and not part of it hardly at all.

  It was a stupid dream I’d made up because he had been kind.

  Yes.

  21

  And then suddenly the trial at Bow-street Magistrates’ Court was over.

  The usual raucous, hooting, unruly crowds outside the court doors, eating pies, and carrying placards and babies, people stretching down towards the Strand and up into Long Acre, long after the court proceedings had recommenced. For weeks they had ogled and shouted as the prisoners were brought in yet again, and if they had the time available people simply waited about to see who would be called in to give evidence, and to catch a glimpse of the prisoners again at the end of the day. Some were clerks, some were street women plying for a bit of day trade, some were servants, some were children. Some were pickpockets, some were a higher class of citizen who nevertheless had not been able to get a place inside. These latter finally repaired to a nearby coffeehouse to discuss further the eternally interesting developments. Buggery had its own fascinations.

  Mattie Stacey and her mother were there; they knew how to arrive early and secure a place. Today Mattie Stacey’s face was very, very pale but composed also, as if some resolution had been reached; her mother, without seeming to, watched her daughter carefully.

  Mr Flowers appeared on his bench at exactly 10 a.m. and the proceedings once more commenced.

  That last morning the much missed Mr Amos Gibbings, host (or perhaps hostess) of the ball at Porterbu
ry’s Hotel, did appear after all. Mrs Stacey and Mattie exchanged glances as his name was called. For there he was: if he had run away, he had returned. He appeared very confident and gentlemanly in a ladylike sort of way, and he introduced himself clearly as ‘Amos Westropp Gibbings at the willing service of this court, having arrived from Calais this morning’.

  ‘You are familiar with the charges in this court, Mr Gibbings?’ said Mr Flowers gravely.

  ‘I am indeed, sir, and I am sure the whole business is simply a terrible misunderstanding, which I hope I can explain in relation to my own life if you will allow.’

  ‘Continue, Mr Gibbings.’

  ‘It is simpler to explain, Mr Flowers, than you may imagine. I began dressing in female attire myself six or seven years ago, for charades – I have several times during the last three years acted in female character for charities – something for which I have a talent, so I am told by my friends – who used to enquire of me how I could keep up my feminine roles with such delicacy, being a man myself. And so occasionally I would appear at their social gatherings dressed as a woman, to show them how it was done. But I work in the theatre! I have played Lady Teazle in The School for Scandal, Mrs Mildmay in Still Waters Run Deep, Mrs Chillingtone in Morning Call.’

  People in the court laughed, entertained; Mr Gibbings himself held up his hand for silence so that he could continue in his confident and cultured voice.

  ‘I have played Helen in The Hunchback – I could go on, Mr Flowers, there are many other trifling parts. I have played these parts mostly in small halls and schoolrooms but I have also had upwards of twelve hundred persons in the audience when I played Mrs Atwell. I have, as I explained, some talent in these renditions, and have indeed received praise.’

  For a moment Mr Gibbings seemed to be expecting praise from this audience also, who were enjoying his evidence, as he was well aware. And then he continued, ‘I have known Mr Frederick Park for some time – we became very good friends for I knew he played female characters, especially dowagers, like myself.’

  This entertained the audience mightily.

  ‘He introduced me to Mr Boulton, and I have never known any impropriety in their behaviour at any time. They are gentlemen. I had heard of Mr Boulton’s talent as a singer and so I asked him to sing at my ball earlier in the year at Porterbury’s Hotel, Where I have to say he was a great success.’

  He would have simply gone on, taking over the court, until at last Mr Flowers intervened.

  ‘Do you know Lord Arthur Pelham Clinton, Mr Gibbings?’ he asked politely.

  Mr Gibbings answered at once, ‘Why, of course.’ And he added with some nonchalance: ‘There is some remote connection, I think you will find, between his family and mine. He was not present, however, at the ball that I have spoken of.’

  Mr Flowers looked at some court officials and said, ‘Neither will Lord Arthur Clinton be present here as a witness, I take it.’

  A bald man suddenly stood.

  ‘Sir,’ he said to Mr Flowers, ‘Mr W. H. Roberts, solicitor. I am here in court for two reasons. First, I wish to completely disassociate myself from any involvement in the story told to the court previously by the witness Mr Cox, which included champagne and tablecloths. I was not there. I was merely with Lord Arthur Clinton one morning at the coffeehouse – at the request of his family – to discuss the matter of his bankruptcy. We were joined presently by Mr Ernest Boulton, and then by Mr Cox—’

  ‘Nothing prejudicial to yourself was taken from your presence at that meeting, Mr Roberts,’ said Mr Flowers briskly. ‘You, Mr Roberts, are not the matter under discussion. Your second reason?’

  ‘The second reason for my appearance is that I am here to represent Lord Arthur Clinton – against whom, at this moment, no charge has been laid – who is unavoidably detained from giving evidence at the moment, but is hoping to present himself at the earliest opportunity.’

  ‘I see, Mr Roberts,’ said Mr Flowers dryly. ‘Well, we are grateful indeed for your presence at least.’

  One of the defence lawyers stood immediately.

  ‘I should have thought, Mr Flowers, that the Treasury would have done one thing or another – either put the unavailable Lord Arthur Clinton in the box as a witness, or in the dock as a prisoner.’

  A lawyer for the prosecution jumped up.

  ‘It is not so easy to just “put people in the dock”, sir.’

  ‘It is easy to avoid if you are the son of a duke,’ murmured the defence lawyer, looking at the new man, Mr Roberts, but Mr Roberts said nothing, just sat down again, and Mr Flowers banged his gavel and turned back to the witness.

  ‘Mr Gibbings. Do you know 13 Wakefield-street?’

  ‘There is no need for him to make our home sound like a house of ill-repute,’ said Mrs Stacey loudly, and Mr Amos Gibbings heard, and turned, and gave a small and graceful bow in Mattie’s and Mrs Stacey’s direction.

  ‘I too sometimes kept my theatrical wardrobe at the very respectable establishment at Wakefield-street,’ said Mr Gibbings urbanely. ‘It was not a place I stayed very often – not above one night ever, I think – but the landlady was very accommodating in allowing me to rent a room for our theatrical attire – everything there was suitable costume for modern comedies or parts. It is true, I did break open the door the police had locked at Wakefield-street, but only to take some clothes to the two gentlemen in the dock. Most importantly, I have swiftly returned from Calais, arriving here this morning, on purpose to give this evidence for my friends. I have always been ready and willing to give evidence at any time, and should have done so sooner, had I thought the case had taken so serious a turn.’

  ‘Ha,’ said Mrs Stacey, under her breath.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Gibbings,’ said Mr Flowers pleasantly. ‘And I would like to compliment you on your clear evidence.’

  He was a change from inebriated housekeepers, and tablecloths, and drunken beadles, certainly. And, of course, he was noble.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ said Mr Gibbings who seemed reluctant to leave the stage. ‘That beard found among the gowns. There was lately a production of Faust, and it was for that production that it was used.’

  Somehow the court erupted with laughter again and Mr Flowers banged his gavel. But there was much applause as Mr Gibbings sat down with some of the noble ladies, and Mrs Stacey and Mattie exchanged further glances, both wondering if he had run away to Calais after that first day and then decided to come back again. But they knew he had been a good witness and surely would have helped Freddie and Ernest.

  The solicitors started arguing about the charges. Frederick Park’s solicitor suddenly stood and addressed the bar.

  ‘Mr Flowers, sir. Before you make your decision I must now point out to you that nothing has been proven against my client, Mr Frederick Park. I leave Mr Boulton in the capable hands of my colleague for whom I have nothing but esteem. But every one of these charges, apart from the dressing in women’s clothing, which I think we all agree was a stupid prank – and indeed not worthy of my client – applies to Mr Boulton, not Mr Park. I wish to make application that the two men standing here today be tried separately.’

  Mattie leaned forward quickly. Perhaps this was what Freddie’s father had meant. She looked at Freddie. He did not look at Ernest, but stared straight ahead. Mattie thought Ernest looked frightened, but in a different way.

  Mr Flowers simply addressed Mr Park’s solicitor in a very dry manner. ‘What would you therefore, sir, make of the letters from your client, Mr Frederick Park, to Lord Arthur Clinton – and which he also signs, “your sister-in-law”?’

  ‘That was just stupidity, not felony, and if I may also point out—’

  But the solicitor got no further.

  Mr Flowers suddenly banged on his bench with his gavel very loudly and the court became immediately silent. Somehow everyone knew that, after so many weeks, this was the moment. It was assumed that Frederick Park, at least, would now be set free.

  M
r Flowers said very slowly: ‘I have had no doubt for some little time past that it is my duty to commit both the prisoners for trial, both on the graver charge of buggery in the indictment, and upon the charge of misdemeanour also – and without bail.’

  Mattie and her mother looked at each other in disbelief. Now there was a different sound in the court. It was astonishment. It had all been so very entertaining. But this was not how the entertainment should end. Frederick Park and Ernest Boulton looked so suddenly shocked it seemed they might both faint. Unbelieving faces in the crowded room; the fashionable ladies and gentlemen, and actresses with big hats: all silent.

  ‘There will presently be warrants for the arrest of several other people about whom we have heard in this case,’ Mr Flowers continued ominously. ‘The prisoners should now stand.’

  They stood, stunned. Not a sound in the courtroom, not a cough. Just people holding their breath.

  ‘Ernest Boulton and Frederick William Park, you are charged that you did, with each and one another, feloniously commit the crime of buggery. And, further, that you did conspire together with divers other persons to induce and incite other persons feloniously with them to commit the said crime. And, further, that you, being men, did unlawfully conspire together and with divers others to disguise yourselves as women and to frequent places of public resort so disguised and to thereby openly and unlawfully outrage public decency and corrupt public morals.

  ‘The prisoners, and others whom I shall name in a separate hearing, will be committed for trial at the next sessions of the Central Criminal Court as a matter of course.’ And Mr Flowers stood. ‘This hearing is now adjourned.’

  But Frederick Park, before anybody else could move, lunged towards the magistrate; he suddenly looked, not like the heretofore contained prisoner, but a wild, pale stranger.

  ‘I am entirely innocent of any thought of that crime!’ he cried and he pushed off a policeman who tried to restrain him.

  Ernest Boulton had been standing holding on to the chair for support, which he now accidentally knocked over, bewildered. ‘I say the same as Mr Park,’ he said.