‘Did you find who you were looking for?’ asked Mackie. She felt his voice rumbling in his back as she held on to him once more.
‘Yes,’ she said shortly.
She supposed the whole of Mudeford knew their business by now. But he did not ask her anything else, and she did not ask him about the bundles tied to the horse. He talked occasionally, about the sea. Almost she fell asleep against his warm, rumbling back.
Billy, walking, was almost at Christchurch when a small horse and trap passed him, going in the opposite direction: the doctor got from Bournemouth. Paid for by Mrs Stacey’s sovereigns.
But Billy did not know this that morning, as he raised his hand in greeting, the way people always did on empty roads, still so early.
27
Nor did Billy Stacey know that, later that same Thursday, even before he and Mattie got back to London, a telegram regarding Lord Arthur Clinton arrived to Mr Frederick Ouvry, solicitor for the Newcastle Estate. It was marked EXTREMELY PRIVATE, was signed J. HEWLETTSON, ESQ. and it, also, was paid for by Mrs Isabella Stacey’s sovereigns.
The telegram advised Mr Ouvry that Lord Arthur Clinton was ill, under an assumed name at a certain address in a small fishing village called Mudeford, near Christchurch, where money should be sent to J. Hewlettson, Esq. at once. After a most urgent conversation with Lord Edward Clinton, the only sensible Clinton brother (this was Mr Ouvry’s opinion, and indeed most people’s), Mr Ouvry made some hasty arrangements.
He instructed the solicitor Mr W. H. Roberts, who had already appeared in the Magistrates’ Court on behalf of the absent Lord Arthur Clinton, to immediately depart for this place mentioned: Mudeford. He instructed him further to find J. Hewlettson, Esq., and therefore, presumably, Lord Arthur Clinton, urgently. He must travel overnight.
Mr W. H. Roberts departed London at once. Mr Frederick Ouvry provided funds out of his own pocket for this to be done, otherwise the matter would have had to be discussed at great length with the Trustees of the Newcastle Estate.
Very little is secret in certain circles. Several gentlemen, hearing rumours, met quickly with others in private rooms, sitting nervously on leather sofas. Muttered private conversations were held; finally before nightfall several gentlemen also departed hurriedly from London.
All had arrived in Christchurch by Friday morning.
On Saturday morning a second telegram arrived for Mr Frederick Ouvry, marked EXTREMELY PRIVATE. It was signed W. H. ROBERTS.
Soon afterwards a hand-delivered letter, marked EXTREMELY PRIVATE, arrived for the Prime Minister of Great Britain at his home. Mr Gladstone, just leaving for a Saturday-afternoon cabinet meeting, recognised the handwriting of Mr Frederick Ouvry; he opened the letter slightly awkwardly, holding his hat in his hand also.
66 Lincolns Inn Fields
London, W. C.
18 June 1870
My Dear Sir
Lord Arthur Clinton is dead. At an obscure cottage in Hampshire under an assumed name.
He has succumbed to an attack of scarlet fever.
I have seen Lord Edward, and hope to see the Duke tonight on his arrival from Paris.
Believe me,
Your obliged and faithful servant,
Frederick Ouvry
Mr Gladstone read the contents again and then stood, very still, half in and half out of the doorway in Carlton House Terrace, staring at the paper. Mrs Gladstone was away. Mr Gladstone did not see the figure of the departing messenger at the corner of the square; he did not hear the hooves of a passing horse in the terrace. He folded the letter and bowed his bare head in the warm sunshine: perhaps in thought; perhaps in prayer.
The cabinet meeting that Saturday afternoon lasted two and three quarter hours. Greece was discussed, and the colonies, and the Irish Land Bill.
28
Of course news travels.
However, although on the following day, a Sunday, certain vague rumours swirled about the upper echelons of noble society, the rumours did not, in this case, reach the Reynolds Newspaper in time for publication, nor 13 Wakefield-street, nor Isabella Stacey (provider of some of the finance involved), who usually knew everything. So Billy did not know the latest developments either, when very early on Monday morning he left home in his best suit and his silk top hat, picked up a copy of The Times as usual, and then walked briskly to the Houses of Parliament as if he still worked there.
He had made a decision. He would not leave the building until he had had a conversation with the Prime Minister. All he wanted was his position back; he did not want to share his information with another person, he only wanted the Prime Minister to see that they had both been caught up in a situation not of their making, and that Billy, too, should still be able to work in the place he loved so much. He believed Mr Gladstone would see the honour in this. As he had now been dismissed from the Houses of Parliament he knew he would require the assistance of Elijah Fortune, and was confident it would be given.
However, when he reached the Central Lobby of the Parliament Elijah Fortune was not there; a large man in uniform loomed.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Where’s Elijah?’
‘Mr Fortune no longer works in this place.’
Billy could hardly believe his ears. ‘Is he dead?’
‘He is dismissed.’
Billy looked around the Central Lobby in dismay. He saw two messengers he knew, huddling and laughing together beside carved kings and queens and a few saints: marble folds and upraised eyes. He approached them.
‘Where’s Elijah?’
‘Your sort and his sort aren’t welcome here no more!’
‘What d’you mean, my sort?’
‘You finger-twirlers!’
‘What?’
‘You ponces! You filthy buggers!’
‘Listen, you pigs!’ Billy grabbed the jacketed arms of one of his erstwhile colleagues and lifted him off the marble-tiled floor. ‘Where’s Elijah?’
‘Oy!’ yelled the clerk in alarm.
‘Oy!’ shouted the new man in uniform.
And Mr William Stacey, who had worked in and loved this illustrious building since he was thirteen, found himself being ejected by three men – not without much protestation – out of the Central Lobby, down past Westminster Hall, and out on to the street, his beautiful silk hat and his copy of The Times lost in the mêlée.
Mr John Jenkins, Head Clerk, was to be seen remonstrating with the new uniformed man. He came quickly to the door of the Houses of Parliament, carrying Billy’s unopened but somewhat trampled-upon copy of The Times, and called out loudly to the disappearing figure. Billy turned and walked slowly back again.
‘Where’s Elijah?’
Mr Jenkins handed him his newspaper. ‘It was decided it was not in the best interests to have him as the public face of the estimable House.’ And then the Head Clerk relented. ‘It was discovered that he was trying to gather together some money for Lord Arthur. He was straightway dismissed.’
‘But he lived here as well! He’s been here for a lifetime! And his wife – she can hardly walk! What will happen to them? Have they been evicted from their home?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Stacey.’ Spiced pomade wafted out into the morning. ‘I am sorry about everything. That same hypocrite bishop was here in a flash when he heard Elijah was involved. The bishops in the House of Lords are a powerful force in this building; there is rather a large number of them, I’m afraid.’ Mr Jenkins tapped Billy’s unread copy of The Times. ‘Hounded,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Read.’ Again Mr Jenkins tapped The Times. ‘Hounded. In my opinion.’
Then the Head Clerk turned back through the big doors and was swallowed.
Billy stared at the entrance he knew so well and then at the newspaper in his hands.
He did not open it at once; some intimation drifted.
He walked round the Houses of Parliament as Big Ben struck eight. Morning activity bustled and jostled past him: carriages, peo
ple, carts; there was the usual smell of horses and shit and humans and coal and fish and ale and fresh bread and factories. And, now, his own dread.
He walked away from the Parliament along the Thames, not seeing the coal barges and the small steam boats and the ferries that crowded the river. He was always so careful of his suit that he wore to the Palace of Westminster. Today he finally sat down in that best suit on a grimy, mouldy concrete step leading down to the water. He opened The Times. He could not find anything at all at first; it did not occur to him to look at the letters page. At last he saw the two letters. The smell of piss steamed up from the steps as the summer sun rose while he read. By the time he had finished both the letters, he was bathed in perspiration.
He then walked home to Wakefield-street, his precious suit filthy, to read what he had found to his mother and his sister.
Sir,
In confirming the announcement of the death of my unfortunate client Lord Arthur Pelham Clinton, I beg you will allow me space in your journal to enable me to carry out his last wishes in reference to the charges preferred against him, the awful nature of which in no slight degree hastened his end.
‘He’s dead?’ cried Mattie in horror and disbelief.
It was on Friday morning that I was informed by telegram from his medical attendants—
‘We only left on Thursday!’ said Mattie. ‘He didn’t have any medical attendants, he means a smuggler!’
—by telegram from his medical attendants of his critical state, when I immediately proceeded to Christchurch, where he had been staying for some time past, and remained there—
‘No, he didn’t remain there!’ said Mattie. ‘That’s a lie!’
—until his death, which occurred on Saturday morning at 1.05 from exhaustion resulting from scarlet fever.
‘Saturday morning!’ said Mattie.
‘Scarlet fever!’ Isabella’s voice was suddenly shrill with fear as she looked at her two children.
‘Maybe,’ said Billy. His voice was dry, expressionless.
But Mattie felt her heart beat faster, saw the hot, stuffy room and the moths banging against the lamp. ‘He killed himself didn’t he Billy.’ It was a statement not a question. ‘He said he would.’
In pursuance of his instructions, I had previously prepared, and he had approved, the letter of which I enclose you a copy, and which I beg you will, in justice to his memory, insert with this. His state however of utter prostration did not permit him to sign the copies which were made, although in full possession of his mental faculties.
Billy stopped reading for a moment. ‘That’s convenient for friends and family.’
It may be satisfactory to his relatives and friends to know that, in the presence of Dr Wade and myself he, when conscious of his approaching end, in a most earnest manner reiterated his denial of any complicity whatsoever in the wretched case and alleged conspiracy, and his entire innocence of the graver charges imputed to him.
I am, sir, yr obedient servant,
W. H. Roberts
‘There’s that W. H. Roberts person again,’ said Mattie. She thought of the hysterical words, only a few days ago: They don’t care about me, it is for the Family, it is only for the Family! ‘And Johnny Hewlettson said he’d get a good doctor called Robbie Thompson and no elegant-refined doctor from Christchurch, that’s what he said. Who’s Dr Wade?’
‘Lord Arthur’s own letter – or perhaps his purported own letter – is directly underneath,’ said Billy in the same expressionless tone. ‘It is even headed MEN IN WOMEN’S ATTIRE so that nobody will miss it.’
To the Editor of The Times
Sir,
In the extraordinary position I find myself placed, and from the peculiar course adopted by the Crown in this matter, I feel justified in asking for the insertion of a letter in your journal.
I am now, as I hitherto have been, anxious to give the most unequivocal denial to the accusations which have been made against me and I most earnestly beg the public to suspend its judgement until the full investigation of a public trial has cleared away and explained the circumstances of suspicion alleged against me.
‘Lord Arthur wrote this?’ said Mattie, disbelief all over her face.
I pledge myself to surrender to trial at the Central Criminal Court on the day appointed as I am desirous of courting the fullest possible inquiry, being conscious that the greater the light which can be thrown upon this unfortunate case the clearer will be my exculpation.
‘Poor sad thing,’ said Mattie despite herself, despite what he had said about Freddie; she kept seeing Lord Arthur in her head, in the tiny, airless room, clutching the embroidered handkerchief and their mother’s money, shouting and crying. ‘It’s not what he said to us at all, Billy, he didn’t talk about any letter, he doesn’t even talk like that.’
‘No,’ said Billy. ‘It’s not what he said to us at all, he said he wanted to get to France. I doubt very much that this letter was in the “pursuance of his instructions”.’
I am now, and have been for sometime past, prostrate on a bed of sickness, or I would before this have surrendered to the warrant and submitted myself to the authority of the Court.
I have instructed my solicitor to retain services of counsel to represent me in my trial—
‘Who’s paying for that?’ said Mrs Stacey, but the other words kept echoing in her head scarlet fever scarlet fever and she looked at them both to see if they were pale, or flushed. She thought her son looked feverish as he read.
—when I shall clearly and honestly show that nothing can be laid to my charge other than the foolish continuance of the impersonation of theatrical characters, which arose from a simple frolic in which I permitted myself to become an actor.
It would ill become me to animadvert upon the course—
Mattie stopped her brother again. ‘What does animadvert mean?’ she said.
‘Criticise,’ he said.
‘How much longer does this go on?’ asked Mrs Stacey. ‘They said scarlet fever! Billy! You’re all hot-faced and your eyes are glittery. Are you all right?’
Billy ignored the question and went on reading.
It would ill become me to animadvert upon the course the prosecution has deemed fit to pursue in silencing, by including in the indictment, those who could otherwise throw light upon this case; that I leave to my counsel and advisors on the fitting occasion, and to the common sense of the community, whose calmer judgement cannot possibly exert itself until the mists of prejudice, naturally excited by the enormity of the offence charged against me, shall have been dispelled by the full light of a free and impartial trial.
I am, sir, your obedient servant
— —
June 1870
At last Billy put down the newspaper. ‘No signature, just a blank.’
‘That’s just all blooming lies,’ said Mattie. ‘And he didn’t talk anything like that, he was talking about how he loved Ernest and escaping to France with money that was supposed to arrive from your friend Elijah! He killed himself didn’t he, Billy? This is done for the family, like he told us, this is them covering everything up.’
‘Never mind all this!’ Fear made Isabella shout at them wildly. ‘Could you two have caught scarlet fever from him? You don’t look quite right, Billy, and Mattie, you’re all hot.’ She was literally unable to stop herself feeling their foreheads as if they were children.
‘Poor beggar,’ said Billy. ‘It might have been scarlet fever. Or – it might have been his own choice. And I suppose we’ll never know.’ He stared down at the letters page. ‘My God, they got these two letters out so damn quick, didn’t they? We only left on Thursday. It says he died early on Saturday morning. And now it’s Monday and here are these masterful letters already published. Very speedy.’
They were in the basement kitchen; he suddenly got up as if he could not stay still any longer. His eyes were certainly glittering and he hadn’t yet told them his news.
‘Well, well, we
ll. And my position as a clerk in the Houses of Parliament is definitely terminated for good. Elijah’s gone as well.’
‘What?’ His mother stared; perhaps she hadn’t heard, or perhaps she couldn’t believe it, or perhaps she was only thinking of scarlet fever.
At last Billy shouted, ‘Elijah’s dismissed as well! I can’t get back into Parliament to do what I want to do without him to assist me. I went there early this morning to talk to Mr Gladstone – including to give him a message from Lord Arthur – and I’ve just been thrown out on to the street by a new man in a uniform just like Elijah’s!’
And then he caught himself and spoke more quietly.
‘Of course they always win, don’t they, Ma, one way or another! Lord Arthur could have said in the witness box at the trial all the things he told us at Mudeford, I suppose, and that would have caused an uproar. I wonder what Mr Gladstone is thinking, right now, on this fine June morning.’
Mattie said: ‘Surely he’s sad. I expect he remembers him when he was a little boy, when his mother ran away.’
‘Oh for goodness sake, Mattie!’ yelled Mrs Stacey. She stared at her son. ‘They actually threw you out the door, Billy?’
He nodded.
‘Ye gods, ye gods, ye gods! Will this never end!’ She ran her hands through her hair. ‘Listen to me, both of you! Listen! Mr Gladstone probably gave up Lord Arthur long ago as a feckless liability! Mr Gladstone is the Prime Minister of Great Britain and the British Empire, for God’s sake, there are wars, there is Ireland, there is the world: how can this matter very much? That business with his old friend the Duke of Newcastle was long ago! Lord Arthur was a sad specimen – Ernest only cared about his title, oh – blooming damn, what a mess these boys have got us into, and now scarlet fever! And what d’you mean, Elijah’s dismissed? What about his little home down there you told of? What about his Dodo, you said her arthritis is terrible now! Where would they go? And do you feel sick, Billy? Answer me properly. You’re all hot.’
The Petticoat Men Page 22