The Lord Chief Justice was, of course, under no such orders. With the theatrical aplomb for which he was well known, the Lord Chief Justice, Sir Alexander Cockburn – whom one newspaper had suggested earlier should do a somersault, and whom the Queen had refused a peerage on account of his immoral life – made his stately, bewigged way to his judge’s bench in the Queen’s Court. He was accompanied by the highest legal minds in the land; the case was to be prosecuted for the government by the Attorney-General himself, accompanied by the Solicitor-General. Four very famous defence barristers walked solemnly in their grandeur. (Who was paying for them all had, all week, been the subject of much debate among some of the more scurrilous newspapers.)
As it was not often that she got out and about any more, Dodo Fortune observed everything with extremely bright eyes. Apart from recognising the Attorney-General and the Solicitor-General, of course, from her time in the bowels of the Parliament, she was interested to see that various other Members of Parliament were attending; she looked carefully at the bishop and the other man that Mackie had pointed out. As they waited, the bishop occasionally exchanged a terse word with the younger man with the wavy hair directly behind him; the younger man fidgeted, looked about the court.
A jury of propertied gentlemen were sworn in, the charge was read, the prisoners one by one pleaded not guilty and the Attorney-General stood.
‘The conduct of a prosecution is at all times the most painful duty of my office, but when it is conducted against four gentlemen, and such they are, well educated and well connected – two of whom have borne a high character – it is with pain and sorrow that I feel constrained to accuse them of an odious crime. But I have no alternative.’
He summed up the histories of each of the defendants who were present, in particular stressing that although Ernest Boulton had once worked in a bank, he seemed to have had, since about 1867, no visible means of support.
‘A not altogether immaterial point,’ said the Attorney-General more than once, looking meaningfully at the judge. He regretted that several of the accused had disappeared; he reminded everybody that the secret and clandestine criminal headquarters of this criminal fraternity had been a boarding house at 13 Wakefield-street, Regent-Square, where they had kept an extensive wardrobe of female attire and female ornaments.
And then he sighed heavily. ‘Now, gentlemen. It is with the utmost reluctance that I feel myself bound to introduce the name of a defendant who is now dead. I am aware of the great pain this will necessarily inflict upon his relatives. I am deeply grieved at the fact that I have positively no choice in the matter. The public interest, which is concerned in the thorough investigation of things of this sort, must be paramount to any commiseration which can be entertained for private individuals and therefore I am compelled to state that I will discuss the relations between Boulton and Park and the late Lord Arthur Clinton.’ The Attorney-General sighed heavily once more and brought out a large white handkerchief.
At the back of the court Mackie looked around at the high ornate building and the high ornate people. He thought of Lord Arthur Clinton in the egg lady’s cottage, and the body, left unclaimed to smell before the coffin-maker refused to countenance such disrespect any longer.
And then Mackie left Westminster Hall and walked to Blackfriars, where ferry passengers were waiting to be transported to Gravesend.
Having finished his sighing, the Attorney-General began his evidence.
Over an hour and a half later he was still standing and still talking, and Dodo, who was familiar with so much of it, felt by then how very nice it would be to have a cup of tea. It was all very sonorous and repetitive.
She looked at Ernest and Freddie, quiet and decorous, except for those flowers in their buttonholes; Ernest was pretty, even if he was described as a gentleman and she thought of Freddie with his hands very still on the piano that cold afternoon. She thought of her husband Elijah, working now in a funeral parlour and sometimes walking behind a hearse in the sunshine or the rain or the snow, somehow because of these men and Lord Arthur Clinton. She looked again at the bishop she had pointed out to Mackie. He was staring intently at Ernest, and at the very instant she watched, she saw that Ernest was aware of the bishop, and, delicately, fluttered his eyelashes. The bishop’s face turned very red. The younger man behind the bishop stared only at the Attorney-General, listening to his every word.
The Attorney-General was now reading letters found, and many of the letters he read out in his long speech were – ‘Mark!’ he said to the jury – letters to Lord Arthur Clinton about money, in Ernest Boulton’s handwriting: Send money, Wretch, signed Stella Clinton and If you have a little coin I could do with it, signed your loving Stella, and one saying, Dear Arthur, don’t tell Papa you have given me money, I don’t want him to know.
Other letters were read. Frederick Park’s letters to Lord Arthur Clinton, signed from your loving sister-in-law, Fanny Winifred Park. The loving letters from the United States consul in Edinburgh to My darling Ernie about those ancients, Antinous and Lais, and about marrying thirty thousand pounds a year, signed with all my love in the world. The United States consul in Edinburgh stared straight ahead, not looking at Ernest Boulton who had inspired these transports not so very long ago.
Finally, his voice rising, the Attorney-General told the jury that if they were led to the conclusion that the defendants were guilty, they would not hesitate: ‘You will not hesitate,’ he declaimed, ‘to stay a plague which, if it were to spread without let or hindrance, must prove a serious contamination of our national morals!’ At last he sat down heavily, spent, and mopped his brow somewhat theatrically with the large handkerchief. Dodo saw the bishop get up abruptly, mutter something to the young man behind him, and leave the courtroom.
Isabella Stacey came for Dodo as promised; kicked a young man into giving Dodo his seat on the omnibus that took them nearly all the way home. They walked down towards Wakefield-street very slowly, Dodo on Isabella’s arm. Dodo did not know that she made small sounds of pain as she walked. She was exhausted. ‘It was interesting, but it did go on, and – well – we know the story.’ Dodo sighed, holding on to Isabella. ‘And odd to be back there in that building that has been so much part of my life. And not to be part of it any more. Poor, dear Elijah.’
Isabella Stacey put her hand over Dodo’s bent one for a moment. Dodo never, ever complained.
‘That young man from the solicitor’s office, Mr Tom Dent, he didn’t mean to, but he said it would be a “show-off” trial. And it was – that Attorney-General actually “mopped his brow” with a big white handkerchief – it was just like in the novels I read!’
Isabella Stacey half laughed, half sighed, a strange, disquieting sound as they made their very slow journey. ‘Blooming hell, Dodo, you and me know perfectly well sodomy goes on, high and low, course we do, we’ve worked in theatres for years. I bet the Queen knows! I bet a lot of them in the Parliament and the Church were bleeding terrified when Ernest and Freddie was first picked up. Haven’t things turned out nicely?’ They came to the old churchyard at the end of Wakefield-street. Isabella stopped. ‘Rest here for a moment, Dodo. Not far now.’
‘Is it – a cemetery, dear?’
‘It’s an old graveyard full of good spirits, some of whom I know, and – look – honeysuckle and wild roses and daisies. It’s where I often get our flowers from.’
Dodo was so glad to rest among wild flowers; they sat together on a seat that proclaimed GOD LIVES as dusk fell. Further away children were skipping with a piece of rope among old graves: Half a pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle.
‘I don’t think I’ll go again,’ Dodo said. ‘Sir Alexander Cockburn kept saying they must finish in one week. But it was the same old things, I read it all last time around. Oh, and the prosecutors tried to bring the other Mr Park into the story, Freddie’s brother, but Sir Alexander stopped them.’
‘That was kind to Freddie’s father. I expect they all know him
. I keep reminding myself that we’re not the only casualties.’ Isabella bent down, pulled at a dandelion. Finally she said: ‘But – ah, Dodo – just what say Lord Arthur had been there, and he actually stood up and told that the Prime Minister of Great Britain had been made his guardian? – and was also in charge of the Newcastle Estate? And just what say he told that his sister was a mistress to the Prince of Wales? He was loose-tongued enough to tell somebody like Ernest, and Ernest was loose-tongued enough to tell people like us. Think of Reynolds News then! 13 Wakefield-street would have been quite forgot!’ And she laughed, half angrily. ‘It was indeed providential for many that Lord Arthur Clinton died.’
‘That’s what Mackie and your Billy say all the time!’
Children’s voices drifted across the shadowy gravestones.
That’s the way the money goes
POP goes the weasel!
And Isabella thought of Billy, singing in his funeral clothes: Quash goes the conviction!
She saw some early-flowering wild roses nearby; she had a small knife that she always carried in her pocket: she got up now and cut some of the flowers. ‘Smell these, Dodo.’
And Dodo Fortune buried her face for a moment in the roses; prickles stuck to her. Isabella carefully unhooked her, pulled Dodo gently to her feet.
‘Nearly home, Dodo.’
They started walking again, but at Dodo’s slow pace, Isabella carrying her armful of roses. She said: ‘But I tell you something, Dodo, after Mattie gives her evidence tomorrow, I’m absolutely finished with it, this case, this business, all the bleeding difficulties, finished, finished finished! And that means Mackie and Billy and their theorising too! It’ll take a long time to recover from being a bawdy house in the newspapers, this just bleeding reminds people all over again. Let them have their big fat show-off trial and prove everybody’s not guilty after all and then Great Britain can live on, happy and glorious, all over the world and not a bugger in sight, magic! And we’ll be left alone at last.’
They came to their front door.
‘We’re only tiny little cogs at the bottom, Dodo, who got caught up.’ And Isabella Stacey sighed. ‘Welcome home to the criminal headquarters.’
45
MA CAME WITH me to the court when it was my turn; ‘I must see Sir Alexander Cockburn performing!’ she said in that dry voice.
Mr Tom Dent that nice legal clerk had come back to Wakefield-street and told me to expect it to be long, the questioning, and I said I didn’t care. I wasn’t nervous this time. ‘And Mr Serjeant Parry, Freddie’s lawyer as I explained, Miss Mattie, he wants you to be prepared to answer questions about prices for rooms.’
‘’What for?’
‘They have to prove that Ernest and Freddie weren’t in need of money, that they weren’t – excuse me, Miss Mattie – soliciting money in their ladies’ attire from – from other people.’ I didn’t say anything to that (but I could’ve said that I knew Ernest had been in need of money all the time we knew him!).
‘You tell Mr Serjeant Parry to ask away, Mr Dent!’
‘Would you call me Tom?’ he had said, quite shyly.
Westminster Hall and its wonderful high curving roof that didn’t fall down though there were no pillars holding it up was amazing to look at, even going to give evidence at a sodomite trial, I’d never seen it before and I stared up with my neck falling off nearly.
‘Gothic!’ people kept saying around us, craning also. ‘Gothic!’
And then we were ushered through to the Queen’s Bench area. Crowded, but nothing like the Magistrates’ Court. Ma sat down, I was taken to a side room, soon I was called, didn’t care any more about limping in front of people, once you’ve been called a crippled whore a few times it dont matter any more – I went and stood in the right place, by a little table. I looked round this new, noble court, all the lawyers all the wigs and gowns and – sleek, you know shiny gentlemen’s horses? – like that they looked: sleek. I saw Tom Dent, he gave me a tiny little hidden wave as if he wasn’t really.
And then I found Ernest and Freddie. They looked quiet and gentlemanly and each wore a flower in their buttonhole and they were both staring at me. Remembering the last afternoon in our house perhaps, and what was said. And now two other gentlemen next to them, as Dodo had told us. Ernest – he still just looked like himself, I mean how he always looked like, with a little moustache but pretty still. But Freddie was – we had already seen it when they came but that was months ago – so different-looking with his beard and his weight but so – I dunno what’s the right word – if I say suffering it sounds a bit theatrical. But that’s what it felt like to me standing there looking at Freddie’s face, with his brave flower in his buttonhole and his brother doing hard labour and his sad father.
Well here I was, crippled whore etc and before everything went wrong with all our lives Freddie was kind. And he had sent me a message with Tom Dent. And I had decided that today I would send Freddie one last message too.
Even though Tom Dent had warned me I could not imagine it would all last so blooming long and so many people questioning me. It was all very – calm, the whole thing, except when the lawyers got politely rude with each other. What it felt like was – was that there was no feelings, no emotion like there had been last time – not the applause and noise like in the Magistrates’ Court and not so much laughter, and if there was laughter it was polite. The Attorney-General was polite too, but a bit like a polite vicious guard dog I thought when he stood up and questioned me, all the usual stuff.
‘My name is Martha Stacey and I am the landlady at 13 Wakefield-street.’
‘You are unmarried and childless?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are in charge of 13 Wakefield-street?’
‘Yes.’
‘I believe your mother lives in the house. How old is she?’
‘My mother is’ – I flicked an apologetic glance at Ma, better add on a year – ‘seventy-six.’
Then we got to those same old questions: ‘Did they dress as women?’ ‘Did they bring their friends?’ After a while I was so bored I thought: I’ll just say back to them what they say to me.
‘Mrs Stacey, you said in the Magistrates’ Court that they asked for two rooms.’
‘They asked for two rooms.’
‘But you only had one room available?’
‘We only had one room available.’
‘That meant they had to share one room?’
‘That meant they had to share one room.’
I was getting the hang of it, I could answer questions like that for hours and we could bore one another to death. I realised the Attorney-General was repeating a question.
‘If they had to share one room that meant they had to share one bed?’
‘Listen!’ I said. ‘I told it at Bow-street. Mr Park and Mr Boulton asked for two rooms and we only had one. And it had one bed in it so I suppose they shared it like I share with my mother when we are very busy. I do not make it my business to go into lodgers’ rooms in the middle of the night.’
But he went on and on. Who came to the house to see them? Did Mr Amos Gibbings have gentlemen visiting him? (And I suddenly wondered then why Mr Gibbings wasn’t arrested. Because he was a gentleman?)
And finally: ‘Did you ever meet Lord Arthur Clinton?’
‘I believe I may have met briefly with Lord Arthur Clinton.’ And I suddenly thought, whatever would happen if I said the truth? whatever would happen if I really told about Lord Arthur Clinton, crying in Mudeford and holding Ma’s sovereigns and speaking of Mr Gladstone?
At last the Attorney-General sat down.
Then Ernest’s lawyer cross-examined me and asked the questions all over again. Sometimes the Judge chipped in with a question too, and I had to answer him as well. My leg was hurting by now but I’d faint rather than admit it. And yet: all the time I had this feeling that we were just going through the motions, so that they could say there’s been a Proper Trial.
Th
en Freddie’s barrister stood up and cross-examined me, he was the fourth blooming man to question me while I stood there. This was the man Tom had told me of, Mr Serjeant Parry, who spoke like an angel and cross-examined like a knife. Well I was on Mr Serjeant Parry’s side, I knew he knew it, no need to knife me.
Mr Serjeant Parry changed the subject completely. ‘I want to ask you about the prices you charged for rooms.’
I answered everything as if I never knew the questions were coming. And then Sergeant Parry looked up pleasedly at the learned Lord Chief Justice.
‘Ten shillings and six per week, my lord! Or four shillings for two people for one night which is all they usually asked for. Not an exorbitant amount of money seems to have been required for the rental of these rooms!’ and he and the Attorney-General looked daggers but I suppose that was all part of the performance we were all doing. I looked round the court – and I thought I saw Mackie standing right at the back, funny, he never said he was coming.
‘Mrs Stacey.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Did you have a permanent lodger at this time?’ Mr Tom Dent had writ that down in his notebook when he first came to see us.
‘Yes we had a permanent lodger at this time.’
‘Did he know these gentlemen went out in female attire?’
‘Course he knew, Mr Flamp. My Ma had told him. And he saw for himself.’
‘How old was he?’
I had no idea so I said, ‘Eighty-one.’
‘Was he shocked?’
‘Course not. They weren’t shocking.’ And I thought of old Mr Flamp, puzzled and yet pleased, at the entertainment.
The Petticoat Men Page 32