The Petticoat Men

by Barbara Ewing

  ‘Your son was living with Lord Arthur Clinton at this time?’

  ‘No he was not living with Lord Arthur Clinton at this time. He was on a visit to him.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘He never went anywhere without my permission. I always knew where he was. He had a position in a bank, you know, but he had to leave that employment, he was not strong enough. We have tuberculosis in the family and you have heard of his fistula operation also which was very painful and exhausting for him.’

  ‘And you knew Mr Frederick Park.’

  ‘Very well indeed. Mr Park nursed my son in his illness, for I, you know, am also not very strong. You need to understand my son has poor health – as I say he is possibly consumptive, it runs in my family I am sad to say.’

  She said she had always been opposed to his acting but she did not forbid it as he was so keen and he had once laughed and told her of his friends calling him ‘Stella’ and she had laughed too, at their silliness.

  The Lord Chief Justice leaned forward. ‘Did you ever hear him called by that name, Mrs Boulton?’

  She looked up at the learned Judge, deeply shocked. ‘Never, my lord!’

  ‘You say Mr Park came to your house,’ continued the kind barrister. ‘Did your son visit Mr Park in his father’s house?’

  ‘Yes. At Isleworth.’

  ‘So the friendship was known to both families?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Boulton.’

  She smiled sweetly, and made to leave the stand. Ma whispered to me she should have had a notice pinned upon her: ‘Very Respectable Mother’.

  But for the cross-examination up stood the Attorney-General who had been sitting quietly, I already said I thought he looked like a guard dog, now we found he was ready for the vicious bite – but very politely of course.

  ‘Mrs Boulton,’ he said most courteously, ‘I am sorry to have to ask you, but,’ and the teeth went in, ‘I am afraid your husband is not very successful in business is he?’

  She looked distinctly put out at once. ‘He has had great reverses, certainly.’ Then she tossed her curls, a little bit like Ernest. ‘But I never allowed any cloud to fall upon my children. I always supplied them with everything they required. Whatever trouble we have had I have always shielded them from everything.’

  ‘Had your son any settled allowance?’

  ‘No – he didn’t need one of course. I looked after him.’

  ‘He had nothing from his father I think.’

  ‘If he asked his father for anything he always gave it to him.’

  ‘I must ask you, how long has your husband been away?’

  ‘Oh – only – perhaps a fortnight this time.’

  ‘I thought you said he was gone to the Cape.’

  ‘Oh, oh yes but – but he has only been left here about a fortnight. Or – no, I may be mistaken, perhaps a little more.’

  ‘Quite a lot more I think, Mrs Boulton.’

  Out came the lace handkerchief, she looked around for support, surely he was being rude and intrusive? But the Attorney-General went on and the questions seemed to get faster and faster.

  ‘Your son has no settled allowance you say. Then how did he live?’

  ‘He lived with me. He always lived with me. Oh – I gave him pocket money – at least a pound per week I should think, my family have always given me a great deal of money and I gave him ten pounds for his birthday when he was in Scotland.’

  ‘Do you know if your son received money from Lord Arthur Clinton?’

  ‘I know nothing about that. I kept my son in clothes you know. He did not go short for anything.’

  ‘Your son generally lived at home?’

  ‘Yes. Always.’

  ‘Always at home, Mrs Boulton?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve told you already, he always lived at home, and he never went anywhere without my permission, I always knew where he was.’

  Ma and I looked at each other.

  ‘Were you aware of his living in London, in having lodgings in London?’ The handkerchief was clenched.

  ‘I was aware he might stay with Mr Park for a short time. I do not think the lodgings were his. I do not think he had anything to do with them. He merely stayed as a guest of Mr Park I think.’

  ‘Did you know where he was staying?’

  ‘I cannot remember. I do not have a retentive memory. But he has never been anywhere that I did not know where he was.’

  The Lord Chief Justice leaned down again. ‘You knew of Wakefield-street?’

  ‘No. Oh no, my lord, no! No no no! They never stayed there I believe, never, never, they merely dressed there if I recollect rightly, but I do not know anything about that.’

  The Attorney-General looked at her. ‘You do not know anything about that,’ he said, saying each word clearly.

  She got more and more upset. She looked around for help: where was the polite man? ‘I knew he was with Mr Park but I did not always enquire exactly where they were and I may have forgotten it. I cannot remember everything. I do not have a retentive memory.’ (I wished I’d thought of that expression.)

  ‘I need scarcely ask you I suppose whether you were aware of his walking about London, night after night, dressed in women’s clothes?’

  Mrs Boulton burst into tears, put her lace handkerchief to her face.

  ‘Indeed I did not!’

  The Attorney-General bowed and sat and poor Mrs Boulton turned to leave, her hat had gone all awry and she looked pale but Ernest’s barrister stood again and asked, so very gently: ‘I will ask you just one more question, Mrs Boulton. Has Mr Ernest Boulton proved himself as, and acted towards you and your husband as, a dutiful and affectionate son?’

  She looked at him most gratefully and pulled herself up to her respectable mother stance again although the handkerchief was still visible and the hat was at a funny angle. ‘He has been a most dutiful and affectionate son.’ And then she added – perhaps she had even been instructed like me, or perhaps she was tired after such a long time being questioned – ‘and the only fault my son ever had was a love of admiration.’ And she looked at the other defendants. ‘Which has been fed by the gross flattery of some very foolish people!’ and then of her own accord she stepped down and went out of the courtroom. People talked and whispered and Ma said, ‘She might have believed everything she was saying, Mattie. In which case she is a very stupid woman.’

  ‘Call Mr Alexander Atherton Park!’

  The Court of the Queen’s Bench – nothing like Bow-street, or ragamuffiny people, but barristers in their gowns, and respectable-looking gentlemen mostly, and a few ladies with big hats – went quiet at once but I couldn’t help a tiny sound when I saw Freddie’s father walk very slowly up to the table.

  He’d been angry and, when I understood things more clearly, anxious more than angry, when I met him at his office because he must have known that his other son was finally caught also. But now he looked only like a frail, devastated old man. I looked at Freddie, his face was distressed, he half stood to help his father but Mr Serjeant Parry kept him where he was with a little gesture. Of course everybody in the court knew who the old man was: the Lord Chief Justice, all the barristers, some of them looked down at their papers in embarrassment or pity: here was the Senior Master of the Court of Common Pleas, he was never a person to be in the witness box, and he stood here now, the father of two sodomites.

  Mr Serjeant Parry spoke gently.

  ‘You are the father of this young man, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I shall but ask you one or two questions. This young man, your son here, was articled, was he not, to a gentleman at Chelmsford? Now during that time that he was so articled, and down I think to the present time, you have made him an allowance. What allowance have you made him?’

  ‘One hundred and sixty pounds per year.’

  ‘Altogether?’

  ‘Yes. That – that was—’ The old man stumbled in his word
s and then spoke again. ‘That was his nominal allowance but he spent a great deal more. I believe he had – eighty pounds to spend and eighty pounds for his board and lodgings.’

  And of course I thought of all Freddie’s board and lodgings: Bruton-street, Wakefield-street, Chelmsford.

  ‘From what time does this extend – when did he go down to Chelmsford to work?’

  ‘In – 1866 I think.’

  ‘From that time down to now altogether what money have you given him from time to time, and at different times?’

  ‘He has had about two and a half thousand pounds – about five hundred pounds each year. Up to the present time.’

  Mr Serjeant Parry shot a triumphant look at the Lord Chief Justice, again about money, his look said, Freddie and Ernest had plenty of money between them. The old man held on to the table.

  ‘I believe the young man, Mr Boulton, was once for a short time a visitor to your house?’

  ‘Yes. My son brought him there once.’

  ‘And I believe he stayed there about a week?’

  ‘Yes. About a week.’ By now I longed to go and help Mr Park myself and I could feel Ma ruffling, wanting to do the same. This was cruel.

  ‘Do you remember when that was?’

  ‘No, I do not. It made no impression.’

  ‘Where do you live now, Mr Park?’

  Almost inaudible now. ‘Isleworth.’

  The Attorney-General stood quickly and said, ‘I have nothing to ask Mr Park.’

  With the help of a court clerk the Senior Master of the Court of Common Pleas turned and left the Court of the Queen’s Bench.

  I looked at Ernest and Freddie. Ernest looked perhaps a bit cross at being told he made no impression. From where I sat, perhaps because of the way the light fell, I saw tears on Freddie’s face.

  49

  The last day of the Trial of the Men in Petticoats.

  At the end of all the repeated evidence – much of it either medical (anuses, penises, flaps and fistula, not to mention syphilis); domestic (landladies, negligees and rumpled bedsheets; noble lodgers and cards saying LADY CLINTON); or financial (horrified exclamations from the defence: with so much money provided to these young gentlemen from their loving and generous families, the suggestion that they needed other money, from other men for instance, was outrageous and disgusting) – at the end of the evidence, then, final legal statements were made to the jury.

  But the inhabitants of 13 Wakefield-street had finally had enough of the trial and did not attend. Except for one.

  The Attorney-General for the prosecution, and each of the defence lawyers for their four separate clients, summed up the cases. Hours went by. To be truthful, many people left for refreshment – and if they did so they missed some very fine and telling oratory from Mr Serjeant Parry, defence for Frederick Park. As the press later reported, he spoke movingly about Manhood and Empire.

  Mackie stood at the back of the court, waiting.

  Mr Serjeant Parry concluded with a final exhortation that was carried in several newspapers.

  ‘I do hope, gentlemen, you will find that not only my client, Mr Park, but all of the defendants have not after all been guilty of the loathsome crime that has been charged against them. Such a verdict in its effect – I do not say could leave a stain upon the national character, God forbid I should think so! But perhaps in the press of Europe and of America – gentlemen, if such a verdict were found, it might be, and no doubt would be, treated with some criticism and reproach! It might be said to be a part of the manners of the English people in this modern nineteenth century! Gentlemen! Think on it!

  ‘They have been foolish, and great disapprobation of their behaviour should be pronounced. They never can be relieved from a certain kind of scorn and contempt, but I hope, gentlemen, you will not find them guilty of a greater crime than they have committed.’

  And Mr Serjeant Parry bowed to the jury and sat down.

  Then it was the moment for the most important speech of all: the summing-up speech of the Lord Chief Justice, Sir Alexander Cockburn, who had no intention of being outdone by a barrister. Many people in the court knew of the Lord Chief Justice: in noble circles his un-respectable private life and Queen Victoria’s disapproval were much commented upon and enjoyed. However, he not only held the highest legal position in the country, but was a wonderfully entertaining and indiscreet dinner guest with many outrageous stories, and his presence was sought at many noble dining tables, if not at Her Majesty’s (for which he might well have been eternally grateful for they were not diverting evenings on the whole; he very much preferred the company of her more amusing son).

  It was known that Sir Alexander Cockburn liked an audience.

  Whatever Mr Ernest Boulton, and Mr Frederick Park, and Mr John Fiske (the consul for America in Edinburgh), and Mr Louis Hurt (from the Scottish Post Office) had been hoping for (with the most serious charge dropped long ago), when the Lord Chief Justice shuffled his papers and cleared his throat importantly, their hearts nevertheless clenched suddenly; they had been forewarned that the special jury could be persuaded of their innocence – or guilt – by this dominant, well-known and extremely powerful person – if he so wished.

  Word quickly went round the building: the Lord Chief Justice was now standing.

  The court filled up again with people who had refreshed themselves. Also Sir Alexander Cockburn knew that many gentlemen of the legal profession, and of the Palace of Westminster, would have arrived in the court especially for his speech, and that the gentlemen of the press would be reporting his words. So before he began, he bowed to his audience in general and when he declaimed: ‘Gentlemen’ – nominally addressing the propertied gentlemen of the special jury – the word encompassed other gentlemen in the court as well.

  ‘Gentlemen.’

  And then he spoke at very great length. He ran through legal matters; suddenly he severely criticised the police for the way they had obtained much of their evidence: what legal right had they to be bringing evidence from Scotland against Mr Fiske and Mr Hurt at all? For Scotland had its own police. And what right had the police surgeon to make a medical inspection of his own volition without an order from the court?

  Then, just as suddenly, he strongly built up the whole case of the Attorney-General for the prosecution – the evidence, the letters, the money, the witnesses.

  Then he collated the evidence for the defence with a different view regarding letters, money, witnesses. In particular he emphasised the theatrical side of the three principal defendants; when Ernest Boulton wrote to Lord Arthur Clinton, saying, Send money, Wretch – although it was in a somewhat inappropriate tone for persons of such a different class – it may have been money owing for performances; when Freddie signed letters to Lord Arthur Clinton your loving sister-in-law he was taking stage parts into the real world.

  It was a masterly – and extremely long – performance.

  ‘Gentlemen, there can be no doubt, with regard to two of the defendants, that they have been in the habit of presenting themselves in public sometimes in the disguise of women. And at other times in their own proper habiliments in the dress of men – but still under circumstances which produced a public scandal, by assuming the gait, and manners, and carriage, and appearance, of women, with painted and powdered faces, so as to produce the general impression that, though in male attire, they were of the opposite sex. Gentlemen. It is impossible for me to speak in terms of sufficient reprobation of indecent conduct of this description. Such behaviour is an outrage against public decency.’

  The Lord Chief Justice took a long drink of water. (Perhaps it was water.) The court waited; various hearts about the courtroom were beating rather fast.

  A torrent of words suddenly filled the courtroom. ‘Gentlemen, I repeat, such petticoat-wearing behaviour is an outrage against public decency that ought to offend any right-minded person of either sex, and ought not to tolerated; and in my opinion when it is done even as a frolic it oug
ht to be the object of severe and summary punishment. If the law cannot reach it as it is, it ought to be made the subject of such legislation, and a punishment of two or three months’ imprisonment – with the treadmill attached to it – and in the case of a repetition of the offence, a little wholesome corporal discipline would, I think, be effective, not only in such cases, but in all outrages against public decency.’

  The faces of the defendants were suddenly white. Something seemed to have gone wrong; this was not what they had been led to expect.

  Sir Alexander Cockburn looked at them in great disdain for a few moments over his spectacles. Not a sound, not a cough in the court.

  ‘However.’ And he turned back to the jury. ‘That outrage is not what we are now trying, gentlemen, and you must carefully bear that in mind, and not allow any indignation you may feel at such unmanly and disorderly proceedings to warp your judgement. I must agree with the manly energy and simple beauty of the speech of Mr Serjeant Parry. Never forget this important point’ – and as he took a dramatic pause you might well have heard a pin drop in Westminster Hall – ‘never forget that the first and greatest attribute of a great nation is the Moral Character of its People.’

  Then he spoke briskly. ‘Nevertheless the second – I might also say of equal importance – is the sacred cause of truth and justice. If you are satisfied of the guilt of these persons, pronounce it, do not be afraid of the consequences! No popular cry, no operation of prejudice, should be allowed to poison justice at its fountain!’

  Then the Lord Chief Justice also mopped his brow with an extremely large handkerchief and sat down.

  Now, at 4 p.m., the special jury of propertied gentlemen retired to consider their verdict. At 4.53 p.m. they returned to the court.

  ‘Gentlemen, are you all agreed upon your verdict?’

  ‘We are all agreed.’

  Do you find the defendants guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘Not guilty.’

  At this point – as reported in every newspaper – Mr Ernest Boulton fainted.

  At this point the young man whom Mackie had been watching all day got up and almost ran from the courtroom. He was dodging the crowd in his hurry to get out, his face red with excitement. But as he exited the heavy doors of Westminster Hall, his arm was unexpectedly gripped in what felt like an iron vice.