Just as we got to the big horrible entrance a carriage drew up with two fine gentlemen in it, they brushed past us, very important and high-hatted and high-tone with some official-looking papers under their arms. We were all in the entrance at the same time so I heard them with their barking voices: ‘Mr Frederick Park,’ and they gave their names in confidential tones – I couldn’t hear that bit though I tried. The gaoler bowed and went away and then he came back and opened a big iron gate with a big clanging noise and the gentlemen disappeared through an arch and an iron door – and you know what? even those two fine gentlemen had the clanging door locked behind them and the keys turned! We heard footsteps echoing away down a long dark corridor and a loud voice barked back: ‘What an odour!’
‘They must be their lawyers,’ said Billy. ‘Arranging things. Wonder who’s paying?’
We told one of the prison officers we would wait till they came back, they took blooming ages, we listened to the noises of the prison, there was shouting coming from all different parts and lots of banging and clanging. We stood outside, occasionally we spoke quiet to each other, leaning against the damp stinking walls – imagine being here, locked up, imagine even working here.
Sometimes I took little looks at Billy, he was pale still but much more himself somehow. I gave him a hug because I felt sort of happy to see him not looking like scarlet fever was eating him, dear old Billy, he smiled. The afternoon had got used up with walking and waiting: the light was going now, I watched strange red sun-lines stretched out across the darkening sky and I wondered if Freddie and Ernest could see them too, down in the cells and it made me shiver to think of them, no sky I expect, either dark or light.
At last the gentlemen came back with their elegant kerchiefs over their elegant noses, they called quickly and loudly for their waiting carriage and ordered it to take them to Piccadilly. ‘Thank the Lord it will only take another week or two at the most,’ said one to the other as they climbed in. Billy gave our names to the gaoler who stomped away again.
We’d brought cheese and apples and bread and Billy had three half-sovereigns in his pocket.
The gaoler came back. He didn’t even unlock the big gate this time, just talked through it. He had a lamp now, it cast strange shadows.
‘Not today, youse,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ said Billy. ‘The others went in. Mr Park and Mr Boulton are not convicted prisoners yet.’
‘They dont know you,’ said the gaoler bluntly. My heart dropped down to my feet as if it had fallen out of my body.
Billy stepped forward, nearer to the man. ‘Course they know us,’ he said. ‘It must be a mistake. Would you be so kind as to tell them,’ he said, ‘that Mattie and Billy Stacey have news for them.’ He wasn’t menacing, but there’s something about Billy as I’ve said before.
‘News?’ The gaoler didn’t budge.
‘Tell them – this is important – tell them we have news of Lord Arthur Clinton because we – met with him.’
The old gaoler had lines of tiredness on his face, we could see he wasn’t keen to go back yet again along the long, long corridor, but I saw Billy give him a coin and off he went, the footsteps echoing heavy and weary, the lamplight disappearing.
‘Surely they’ll want to see us?’ I said to Billy, confused. ‘Perhaps they didn’t understand. Freddie always came over and spoke to us at the court, always.’
He gave me an odd look but didn’t say anything, not then.
Back echoed the tired footsteps, nearer and nearer, we saw the light flickering towards us again. His face shadowed through the iron gate. ‘Sorry, lad,’ he said to Billy quite kindly. ‘They said they dont know you. They said they had no idea who you are and please stop bothering them.’
Stop bothering them? I couldn’t believe Freddie would say that. ‘But – did you tell them we had been with Lord Arthur Clinton?’ My face must’ve looked distressed because he didn’t speak rude.
‘They’ve got big important gentlemen lawyers and suchlike visiting them, miss, not people like you. Off you go now.’
We trudged back home again in silence, still carrying the apples and the cheese, through the unfriendly streets where people screamed and shadows lurked. Finally Billy did speak.
‘Mattie. Try not to mind. We’re part of the world they have to distance themselves from now,’ he said. ‘To get out of prison.’
‘How do you mean?’ Even in the dark I saw him think how best to say it.
‘We’re from Wakefield-street, Mattie. We’re from all the criminal things – the gowns and the wigs and the perfume and the jewellery. That all has to be cancelled now, so they can – get out of here.’
I didn’t say anything for a while as we walked on. I thought of the days when they came and went in 13 Wakefield-street, and the laughter and the song drifting down:
Which is the fairest gem?
Eileen Aroon.
I spoke half to myself, as we walked home in the night.
‘Music cant be cancelled,’ I said.
31
Lord Thomas Clinton, uncle to Lord Arthur and younger brother of the late lamented fifth Duke of Newcastle, understood that the Prime Minister of England had daily meetings with many people, as part of his routine: some in his private study in his private house; some in his office in the House of Commons. Lord Thomas Clinton did not have an appointment; he came early, on extremely private business, to Carlton House Terrace.
When he arrived the Prime Minister was engaged. One of Mr Gladstone’s daughters, whom Lord Thomas might have met when she was a child (was it Agnes? was it Mary? he had forgot), greeted him politely.
‘Good morning, Lord Thomas,’ she said. She led him to a seat in the wide hallway and reception area and placed his top hat on a table there for the purpose. ‘The weather seems at last to be giving us some relief.’
‘Indeed, my dear. It was very trying – and particularly so for us, the older generation. Today is fine but fresher, for which we are glad! How is Mrs Gladstone?’
‘She is well, thank you, Lord Thomas. Still as busy as she always was.’
‘Does she still swim?’ Miss Gladstone laughed that he should remember.
‘She still swims! She is intrepid and not to be deterred! She was swimming in Kent not long ago.’
Neither of them mentioned the bereavement suffered by the Clinton family not two weeks previously, that is, the death of Lord Thomas’s nephew, Arthur Clinton. Their polite conversation would no doubt have continued but the door to the study was opened, another visitor was ushered out and Lord Thomas Clinton was ushered in.
‘Good morning, Mr Gladstone. Just a few moments of your valuable time.’
‘Good morning, Lord Thomas.’
Always with this family, always, despite the close ties he had had with Lord Thomas’s older brother, the fifth Duke of Newcastle, William Gladstone was aware that they were of noble blood. And he himself was not. He indicated a chair on the other side of his small desk.
‘Please make yourself comfortable here.’ Then the two men sat in silence for some moments.
Finally Lord Thomas sighed. ‘This has been a sorry business. And a stain upon the name of Newcastle and its family. I am glad my brother the Duke is dead and knows nothing of this shame. Dear young Susan is prostrated of course. She so loved her brother. She weeps and weeps and will not be consoled.’
Mr Gladstone bowed his head briefly. And then he said: ‘What can I do for you, Lord Thomas?’
Lord Thomas shifted slightly in the damnably uncomfortable chair he had been offered and cleared his throat. ‘I come to you, sir, in your capacity as a trustee of the Newcastle Estate. Our family has been made aware that there is a sum of money owing to Mr W. H. Roberts, who dealt so – delicately – with my poor nephew’s illness and death. Something over two hundred pounds is due to him in monies paid out to others. And indeed there are debts around Christchurch left also by Arthur that, for the honour of the family, should be paid. An
d Arthur’s estate unfortunately does not have the wherewithal.’
‘Indeed those debts should be paid, and the family are responsible.’
‘Unfortunately – for I have spoken to the young Duke and to Lord Edward – no family member – nor I myself – is in the position to be able to repay those debts. The young Duke suggested that the Newcastle Estate, concerning which you and your fellow trustee Lord de Tabley alone can make decisions, could – in this particular instance – pay.’
Mr Gladstone – his expression stern and deeply disapproving – looked across the desk at his visitor.
‘As I understand it, the trust, as I think you know, is not there for “family matters”. It is there for the preservation of the Newcastle Estate itself. As I am sure you realise, this is a confidential family matter, Lord Thomas, for you and the family to deal with.’
Lord Thomas Clinton’s face flushed, but he added nothing more.
Mr Gladstone stood. ‘I shall write to the estate’s solicitor, Mr Ouvry, who is more familiar with the particulars of the legal situation than I am. But I would suggest the family should not raise their hopes over this matter. I will contact you, Lord Thomas, when I have an answer from Mr Ouvry.’
Lord Thomas Clinton nevertheless had the last word as he rose from the uncomfortable chair. ‘Thank you, Mr Gladstone.’
(Had he perhaps – just slightly – emphasised Mr Gladstone?)
‘We are a long way indeed from those happy days in our old and noble family home, around our piano with my late brother’s wife singing so sweetly – the days that you and I both remember, Mr Gladstone, for you were – well, of course – always made so welcome by our family. I do believe that my late brother – for whom you are speaking – would not want the Newcastle name shamed further. I shall await your answer. Good morning.’
And Lord Thomas Clinton came out into the wide hallway, where he received his hat from the Gladstone daughter whose name he had forgot, and emerged into the brisk, fresh sunshine in Carlton House Terrace.
A brief correspondence ensued after this meeting.
Mr Ouvry, solicitor for the Newcastle Estate, locked himself in his private office to answer the Prime Minister’s query.
66 Lincoln’s Inn Fields
London W.C.
30 June 1870
To the Prime Minister.
My Dear Sir,
Under the Duke’s will no apportionment of Lord Arthur’s annuity is payable so that nothing is coming to his estate. In fact I have advanced to Mr Roberts £50 which I have no means of repaying myself.
The trustees have no power to deal with these expenses and therefore members of the family must supply them.
Mr Ouvry put down his pen: there was no one else there of course; these kinds of letters he always wrote privately in a small back office in the building. He put his head in his hands.
Mr Ouvry felt that Mr Roberts had dealt with this extremely difficult and unfortunately somewhat notorious matter in as private and confidential way as he was able, in all the circumstances. Mr Roberts had acted as he thought best to uphold the honour of the Newcastle family, yet the family refused to reimburse the expenses, and pay his, very reasonable, fee. Mr Ouvry had worked for the old Duke before he died, and had understood that his family had caused him much pain and trouble. Mr Ouvry was certain the fifth Duke of Newcastle would not have stood by idly at this point as the younger members of the family were doing – as was the brother of the late Duke – expecting anyone but themselves to pay the debts and so end this sad story. He picked up his pen again; the nib scratched as he wrote fast because he was angry.
It is impossible that they should allow Mr Roberts, who really has behaved most kindly in this matter, to be out of pocket. The Duke would have paid for getting him abroad and I should have thought would not have hesitated to meet this claim.
Believe me, my dear Sir
Your obliged and faithful servant
Frederick Ouvry
11 Carlton House Terrace
30 June 1870
Dear Lord Thomas Clinton,
I am sorry to say that as I expected Mr Ouvry’s reply to my query is unfavourable. He tells me the Trustees have no power to deal with the expenses of your nephew’s illness and funeral, and as regards the Estate it appears that Mr Ouvry himself is out of pocket in acct with it.
Believe me, Sir
Sincerely yours
W. E. Gladstone
The Newcastle family having been thus advised, the debts pertaining to the death of the late Lord Arthur Clinton remained unpaid.
32
It came softly and silently when it came: a small paragraph in the newspapers. Billy had come home with The Times after a long and tedious funeral of an alderman; he had walked slowly for miles behind the hearse, and the black horses with their feathers dancing.
‘Look what I’ve found,’ he said and he spread out the newspaper on the kitchen table, leaned over it and began reading.
On Wednesday the parties in the case of the Queen v. Boulton and Park appeared by summons before the Lord Chief Justice Cockburn in his private room at the Guildhall. The Crown having withdrawn the charge of Felony the writ of certiorari was granted and the Defendants are to be admitted to bail.
‘What’s that thing – certiorari?’ said Mrs Stacey.
‘What does that all mean?’ said Mattie.
Billy looked over the short paragraph quietly for a moment and then to their utter astonishment – still in his funeral clothes, still staring at the words – he started to casually sing.
Half a pound of tuppenny rice
Half a pound of treacle
See the money rolling in
QUASH goes the conviction!
‘What it all means is that “somehow” the worst charge, the felony charge – which is the sodomy charge – has been magically withdrawn. That must be what Freddie’s father knew was coming – and Lord Arthur hadn’t even conveniently died then, so this must have been planned all along to keep noble sodomy out of the newspapers. Well, now at least they can resurrect Lord Arthur’s good character, in death. Now I wonder, who would those people have been, working so quietly behind the scenes?’ And Billy half laughed, pushing The Times away. ‘And I’m sure it also means that the jurisdiction will be taken elsewhere.’
‘Talk in sensible sentences, Billy!’
‘I think the case will now go to a civil court, a different kind of court, which is run by a different class of people with a special jury of – I believe they’re called “propertied gentlemen”. They understand things better – man to man.’
‘How could that suddenly happen?’
‘The world is a mysterious place,’ said Billy dryly. ‘But I think two useful words would be money and influence.’
And he sighed. And then he took off his fine black mourning jacket with tails, and the top hat that could have been fashioned by a royal hatter: his new life.
He was stoic, he had not complained about his new position, not once. But his sister and his mother saw that even though he had sung to them – a most unusual occurance – his spirits were so low.
On Sunday, Reynolds News was absolutely furious. Perhaps it was righteously furious from a moral perspective; on the other hand its profits had recently soared: were they to so suddenly recede?
Billy declined to read the newspaper to them. ‘You read, Mattie,’ was all he said. So she sat facing their mother so that she wouldn’t miss anything, and began.
ANOTHER JUDICIAL FARCE
A writ removing the trial of ‘The Men in Petticoats’ from the Central Criminal Court to that of the Queen’s Bench is nothing more than a loophole afforded to wealthy and influential parties to get out of the fangs of justice. Poor people are tried at the Central Criminal Court – the fact is our judicial system is a scandal to the age and a reproach to the English nation; the custom of removing trials from a criminal to a civil court, by means of money, being perhaps the greatest iniquity in the system.
The prosecution by the Treasury has cost an enormous amount of money, and now, forsooth, it completely breaks down! Why has the prosecution of the major offence, the charge of committing unnatural crimes, dropped through?
We feel certain that some sinister influence has been at work to screen people of higher position from being placed in the same predicament as Boulton and Park, and hence their prison doors are thrown open—
She stopped reading. ‘Are they free now?’
‘Keep reading,’ said Billy.
—and hence their prison doors are thrown open, bail for ten times the required amount will be forthcoming; the trial if it ever takes place will be postponed for months, no further exposures will be made – and so the farce is ended! It would have been more complete, perhaps, if Lord Chief Justice Cockburn had stood upon his head, or turned a somersault, after granting the writ of ‘certiorari’ and before the curtain fell on the first act of this comedy.
Billy started to laugh despite himself. But Mrs Stacey stared into her glass of port. ‘And that’s why Sir Alexander Cockburn, that old party fellow, was sitting at the back of the Old Bailey that day, directing the proceedings, I knew it!’
‘And Reynolds News will lose hundreds of pounds!’ said Billy. ‘No wonder they’re furious. All the Sunday readers – like us – deprived of the Scandal of the Men in Petticoats!’
The Petticoat Men Page 24