by Roy Lewis
We had won.
I need not describe the carousing that followed.
It wasn’t the end for Captain William Lanham Thomas, of course. On the 21 August he appeared at Petty and Quarter sessions: he was fined £2 for assaulting Police Constable Richard Green at the Anchor on the 17 June. For two further assaults on the same constable on Polling Day he was sentenced to one day’s imprisonment and fined £5 and costs. And he, along with Messrs Honeywood, Blackiston, Beck, Clark, Boxall, Lambert and Mills were summoned for unlawfully and riotously assembling and meeting together and entering the dwelling house of William Robert Seymour Fitzgerald and making a great noise, riot and disturbance and affray therein. The charge was dismissed upon their making an ample apology and donating £20 to charities. My own presence on the occasion was not mentioned—after the discreet intervention of the Attorney General.
Captain Thomas’s troubles as far as the Horsham election was concerned were ended.
But my involvement was far from over, and a scandal was looming large.
4
My forensic experience at election committees meant that I was not surprised, some days later, when I heard that Fitzgerald had decided to try to unseat young Jervis. The grounds on which his supporters intended to proceed were that the elected candidate had indulged in bribery and corruption!
I met Sir John Jervis in his chambers. I was shocked by his appearance; he did not look well. His face seemed thinner, a racking cough disturbed him constantly and he seemed to have lost some of his self-assurance. He was not long for this life, of course, though I was unaware of that at that particular time.
‘I am not unduly disturbed at the threat of this petition, James,’ he remarked with a slight smile. ‘They can hardly hope to deprive John of the fruits of his victory by proving his success at methods which they themselves had tried and failed.’
I readily agreed with that view.
‘On the other hand there are other considerations to take into account. Have you seen the report in the Sussex Advertiser?’
I had not. The Attorney General handed me the cutting he had taken from the newspaper. I can quote it still, from memory:
‘It has been most notorious that the most open and barefaced corruption existed on both sides at the recent Horsham election. There was no concealment, no disguise. It was universally known that there existed no distinctive pre-eminence of vice on either side. And it is reported to our correspondent that it is universally believed that the financial support for the election of Mr Jervis was provided by the Treasury itself, to the extent even of £8,000.…’
I looked up at Sir John. His eyes were fixed on me: he did not need to tell me how disturbed he was by the allegation of corruption on the part of the Government itself, and the tarring of his own reputation as Attorney General.
‘Newspaper talk,’ I muttered unconvincingly.
He shrugged, raising his lean shoulder in contempt. ‘But damaging. It cannot be allowed to go on. We have made representations to Mr Fitzgerald. It has been made clear to him that he would fail in a petition because of his own … responsibility for what went on. He has seen the wisdom of the advice. It has been agreed that he will not contest John’s election. But …’ he coughed into his handkerchief; it was a raw, throat-raking dry sound, ‘but, his stepping back does not mean that his supporters will follow his lead.’
I waited, thinking. He was right, of course. If the Pinks could find someone, a nonentity perhaps who was untainted by what had gone on at Horsham, embarrassment for all might follow. And Lord George Bentinck, in his malice, would no doubt be prepared to fund the proceedings.
‘Mr Padwick, Mr Fitzgerald’s agent, has been in touch. He tells me a certain Mr Newmarch is prepared to bring the petition. However … Mr Padwick proposes a meeting.’ He paused, eyed me carefully as he coughed into his handkerchief. ‘This is no reflection upon your efforts, James, and I remain indebted to you. But with the rumours that are now circulating in the coffee houses, and the Government’s delicate position … I think my son’s interests must be disregarded for the moment. Mr Padwick has a proposition to make which will relieve both sides of anxiety. You would do me a great service if you would be so kind as to meet Padwick and … discuss financial matters.’
‘As your agent, to reach a compromise, Sir John?’
He hesitated. ‘An agent—’
I held up a warning hand. ‘No, on second thoughts, perhaps we should not formally discuss an agency. It might be better if I were able to act freely … not exactly on your behalf.’
I don’t know if he then knew what I had in mind: he had a keen legal intellect, but he had not been schooled in the world of the Old Bailey. Because it’s all about how you present a case, how you bamboozle the other side, how you seem to make promises but in fact do not do so.…
I met Mr Padwick the next day, when he consented to join me at The Nunnery for a private discussion.
I was already aware that Mr Fitzgerald’s agent held no great love for me: he had been irritated from the beginning of the campaign by the efficacy of our methods and the speed in which we adjusted our strategies. Now, refusing the offer of a glass and a cigar, he was inclined to move straight to business as he sat there before me, legs wide apart, hands folded over his extensive belly, bald head shining in the afternoon sun that streamed in through the window.
‘So, Mr James, you have agreed this meeting to discuss the election petition we intend to bring.’
‘That is so. Though, as an experienced advocate at election committees, I would advise that you will have little chance of success.’
Padwick permitted himself a wintry solicitor smile. ‘That’s as may be. If we present the petition in the name of the candidate—’
‘You will be laughed out of the committee room. Mr Fitzgerald would be complaining of practices in which he himself indulged.’
Padwick’s eyes were stony. ‘That is not our intention. A supporter of the candidate, Mr Newmarch, will present the petition—’
‘Which, even if it succeeded in unseating Mr Jervis could not result in the election of Mr Fitzgerald, against whom our side would proffer similar charges.’ I paused. ‘So where is the advantage to either?’
‘Ah. But you disregard the other matter.’
‘Which is?’
‘The illegal use of Government funds to support the candidature of Mr Jervis.’
He had read the Sussex Advertiser. I suspected he had even placed the story there. ‘Can you prove the use of Government funds?’ I demanded.
He smiled a fat, confident, self-satisfied smile. ‘Would we need to? The embarrassment would be huge for the Attorney General; the Government would find mud sticking. The consequences for the party would be unimaginable.’
We both fell silent, watching each other like sparring fighting cocks. At last, almost diffidently, I said, ‘I believe we could find a way out of this … impasse. I have considerable experience in these matters and am prepared to admit that an election committee could find both parties equally to blame if charges of bribery and corruption were to be brought. That would be in the interests of neither your candidate nor Mr Jervis. However, if the charges brought were to be reduced to, say, treating, I think that, in the circumstances, we would be prepared to accept the possible unseating of the Attorney General’s son.’
A gleam of satisfied triumph appeared in Padwick’s cold eyes. ‘If we confine the charge to mere treating, and raise no issue of Treasury financial support, your side would raise no defence?’
I hesitated, but knew that we had no choice, really: the position of the Attorney General was too delicate. His son would have to wait another day to make his appearance in the House of Commons. ‘We would raise no defence.’
Padwick nodded slowly. I waited. At last, he smoothed one hand over his bald pate, tugged at his side-whiskers and murmured, ‘You act as agent for Sir John in this matter, I take it.’
I stared at him, said nothing, but nod
ded almost imperceptibly.
‘Our side has been put to considerable expense.’ He stared at me coldly, now convinced that he had the upper hand. ‘Sir John has much to lose, not least his reputation and that of the Government. Whereas on our side, it is merely a matter of money rather than honour. So, Mr James, I am instructed by Mr Fitzgerald that our side will be prepared to confine our charges at the hearing next week to treating merely, on condition that your candidate makes no defence to the charge and gives up the seat.’ He paused. ‘And furthermore we would require that Mr Jervis—or preferably Sir John Jervis himself—shall pay the costs of the petition.’
His smile hardened. ‘In this way the name of the Attorney General will not be directly connected with charges of bribery and corruption, he will be relieved from a very unpleasant and undignified position and the Treasury itself will not be drawn into a damaging financial dispute with serious political connotations.’
I nodded, seeming to acquiesce. ‘You speak of the costs of the petition—’
‘We would estimate these to be in the nature of £1,500,’ Padwick said blandly and flicked some non-existent fluff from the shoulder of his coat.
I watched specks of dust dance in the shafts of sunlight through the window and considered the oft-repeated claim that attorneys were often no better than highwaymen but I retained the solemn expression that befitted the occasion, and my situation. At last I sighed, as though in defeat. ‘Mr Padwick,’ I said, ‘in the capacity as agent of Sir John Jervis I am able to say that I believe we are in agreement. You will water down the charge, we will not defend the claim of treating and Mr Jervis will relinquish the seat. And Sir John will make a payment to your office sufficient to cover the costs of the petition—’
‘One thousand five hundred pounds,’ Padwick intervened smugly.
‘Agreed.’
Padwick rose and extended his hand. I took it: his grasp was limp and damp. ‘It is a pleasure to deal with gentlemen,’ he said, ‘in a gentlemanly fashion.’
And so, the following week, the election committee had little to do. The petition was presented on the grounds of treating; no defence was raised; and the declaration was made: John Jervis was to relinquish the seat at Horsham.
But Fitzgerald, of course, was not automatically given the seat. That worthy gentleman went down on the last London train that same day and entered Horsham in triumph preceded by the town band and with his supporters celebrated at the Kings Head. But it was all show and bravado.
The Sussex Advertiser reported the events:
‘Why did not Mr Fitzgerald claim the seat for Horsham when his opponent had been unseated? You know well! If he had claimed the seat his return would have been petitioned against too … and he would have been held up to the laughter and contempt of mankind.…’
I duly reported to Sir John Jervis and advised him of the next steps we should take. Accordingly, a few days later when Padwick presented his bill for £1,500 it was rejected politely by the Attorney General.
The furious solicitor stormed around to my chambers in Inner Temple Lane. Waving Sir John’s refusal letter he shouted, ‘The Attorney General refuses to pay! You made a fool of me, Mr James! Sir John denies that he ever instructed you as his agent in this matter! You took the task on yourself, without reference to him! It’s to you now, sir, that I turn to demand redress.’
I leaned back in my chair, folded my hands over my waistcoat and smiled at the plump, flustered solicitor.
‘Redress? In what matter?’
‘The agreed costs of the election petition!’ he spluttered. ‘The money you promised me would be paid—’
‘I promised? You are mistaken, Mr Padwick, I made no such promise in my behalf!’
‘I’ll have satisfaction of you, sir, I shall take the matter to court—’
‘Where your suit will fail, my legal friend.’
‘Sir John refuses to pay—’
‘Because he authorized no such promise.’
‘So you must pay!’
I spread my hands wide, mockingly helpless. ‘But you must know the law, Mr Padwick. I made no such promise in my own name. You were aware at all points that I was acting as an agent for Sir John … unfortunately, unauthorized, but there you are! If Sir John denies liability, how can you fix liability on me? I made no promise that I would pay in person. You knew that. How could you then persuade a court otherwise?’ I smiled. ‘I regret, Mr Padwick, there will be no £1,500 forthcoming.’
There was a long silence, broken only by the harsh, frustrated breathing of the infuriated, outwitted solicitor. At last he turned away, pausing only to stop at the doorway to snarl over his shoulder, ‘You sir, you are a rogue!’
I dismissed him from my chambers with a disdainful flick of the hand. ‘I fear, Mr Padwick, that of rogues at Horsham there were a very great number.’
Rogues. It was only a short time later while at the Nottingham Assizes, that I received the request from Lewis Goodman, demanding that I attend a meeting at the hostelry near Welbeck Abbey. There, I found myself in the presence of four men, who my old enemy, Sir George Bentinck, immediately described in the same manner. Rogues.
A meeting of rogues, on the day that he came to his mysterious end.
PART THREE
1
It’s a curious thing that when a man of notability dies a torrent of words will gush forth about him, mostly exaggeration, much ill-informed, and a great part wishful memories endowing an individual in death with qualities he never actually possessed in life.
Such was certainly the case with my bitter enemy, Lord George Bentinck, after his demise near the Abbey Inn.
He was the younger son of the Duke of Portland and had devoted his young adulthood to sporting pursuits including an overwhelming passion for horse racing. Although he had been an MP since 1828 he had displayed no great interest in politics until he came out as an opponent of Peel’s Corn Laws, the dispute that split the Tory Party and sent it into the wilderness of Opposition. After his intervention—the first time Bentinck had spoken in Parliament in eighteen years—Sir Robert Peel’s administration ended and in due course Bentinck emerged as Leader of the Opposition in the Commons.
Now, after his death, the journals were filled with glowing accounts of his greatness, his perspicacity, his unflinching courage in debate, his gargantuan efforts in the cleansing of the Augean Stables of the racing fraternity and, according to his unctuous admirer Disraeli, his indomitable support for all that was decent and honourable in public life. I could have disputed with Disraeli on that account.
It was only later that a more reflective view began to appear, not least when his cousin and diarist Charles Greville wrote of Bentinck’s meanness, avarice, vicious hounding of men with whom he disagreed and long-lived malicious persecution of those he felt were his enemies. This was more like the man I knew, and heartily disliked.
In my estimation and experience Lord George had been an arrogant mean-spirited liar, a hypocrite and a cheat: his greatest quality in my view was that he was quite the best hater I ever came across. And it was well enough known that he held a bitter dislike of me and my doings. I had first incurred his ire in the Running Rein trial; later I had disgraced and mocked his aristocratic friend Lord Huntingtower in the courtroom and I had bested his minion Fitzgerald in the Horsham by-election; on the other hand Bentinck’s only successful recourse, to his intense frustration, had been to blackball me at the Carlton Club—a disappointment which I had turned aside by becoming a Radical and joining the Reform Club instead, and to his fury had since been enjoying the patronage of his political opponents, Sir John Jervis and Viscount Palmerston.
So, having such a notable enemy, it was not unexpected that I should be questioned, eventually, about the matter and manner of his death. The task fell to another of my bêtes noirs, Inspector Redwood of the Metropolitan Detective Squad.
The narrow-eyed, lean-visaged detective officer cornered me some three weeks after Bentinck’s death
. As I came out of a hearing in the Court of Exchequer there he stood, frock-coated, his black-varnished hat in his hand as he waited in the echoing Great Hall, among the scurrying clerks, sellers of scrip, nervous witnesses and urgent barristers, and he asked me politely if he might be granted the privilege of a few words. I was not pleased, and was tempted to deny him the pleasure on the ground of pressing engagements elsewhere, but on reflection I thought it best to give him a few minutes.
He gestured me to a bench against the wall. We sat side by side, subjected to occasional curious glances from passing lawyers of my acquaintance.
‘Well, Redwood, what is it?’ I growled unhappily.
Redwood smiled faintly, took out his notebook, glanced at it briefly and then began. ‘I have been entrusted by the Commissioner with the handling of inquiries into the unhappy demise of Lord George Bentinck some weeks ago.’
I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. ‘My understanding is that he died of a heart attack.’
Redwood nodded sagely. ‘That is what has been put about by the family. But privately, between you and me, Mr James, there are still questions to be asked, avenues to be investigated, tracks to be pursued in considering the circumstances surrounding his death. There are certain mysteries.…’
He waited briefly but I made no response so he went on.
‘We have fairly full information about the events of that unhappy day near Welbeck Abbey, his ancestral home. Indeed, the facts are well known; the information has appeared in the newspapers. On the fatal day, Lord George wrote three letters after breakfast—they are of no consequence—and then announced he intended to visit Lord Manvers at Thoresby, making his way there on foot. A valet was despatched to Thoresby that afternoon with a trap, preceding him, to be available for his return. Lord George left Welbeck Abbey at a little after four in the afternoon.’