by Roy Lewis
I turned away from Redwood and followed the other officer into the cold room where the corpse was lying. It was a long whitewashed place with a stone-flagged floor, dimly lit with a pale wintry light filtering through high windows. A series of tables extended the length of the room, on which had been placed corpses, covered with sheets. One only was exposed and the constable led me towards that particular table.
‘Dr Wakley has already given his statement. Are you also able to make an identification, sir?’ he asked in a low, respectful tone.
I still recall the sweet, disgusting odour of advancing putrefaction in that room, the coldness of the atmosphere, and the sight of the twisted body lying on the table. The spine was bent, the body curled in foetal agony, and the features were scarred with a fearful pain, the mouth tortured, the eyes rolled up, one hand seeming still to claw at the cheeks as the infernal pain had torn the life from his body. The dying man had suffered. The prussic acid had done its job well. I nodded.
‘That is John Sadleir,’ I said, hesitating momentarily, still staring at the corpse. The mysterious surgeon at Guy’s Hospital had chosen the victim well: the body was of the height of Sadleir, the hair of a similar colour. For the rest, the face was so frozen and twisted as to be almost unrecognizable.
I returned to the other room. Thomas Wakley was seated at a small desk, signing some formal papers presented to him by Redwood. As I waited my turn I wondered about the old man coughing there over the documents. Many times since that day I have considered what part Wakley must have played in that charade, and why. He was a man of great reputation. I knew why I was there, but Thomas Wakley? Perhaps it was the debts he had accumulated—for during his career he had been a most litigious man, being involved in numerous libel suits. And years ago there had been that business of an insurance claim that the company had failed to pay out after the fire at his premises, started, he claimed by the Thistlewood gang. Maybe he really did believe that the corpse on the table that February morning was that of his fellow member of the Reform Club; maybe it was just that he was swayed by the fact of the letter that had been found on the body.
Or maybe this former coroner had been chosen because he was old, frail, consumptive with fading eyesight and intellect. Indeed, he was to die not long after this identification. I never did reach any conclusion in my own mind as to why he had been there at my side that day in the dead house, what invitation he had been responding to.…
The story of John Sadleir’s last hours appeared in the newspapers over the next few days as the details slowly emerged. It was reported that he had eaten dinner on Saturday night at his home in Gloucester Square, attended by his butler. He had earlier despatched a servant to a local chemist for a bottle of prussic acid, ostensibly for the use of the stud groom at Sadleir’s other house at Leighton Buzzard. Between dinner and midnight Sadleir had sat alone in his drawing room, writing two letters. And when the servants had retired for the night he had stolen from the house, taking the bottle of poison and a silver mug and walked to Jack Straw’s Tavern. There under a clear sky on the frosty Heath he had filled the mug with the prussic acid and drained it, ending his life. And now, he was officially dead.
But I knew he was on a boat, bound for Valparaiso.
His prediction about the legal storm that would be unleashed after his ‘suicide’ was correct. Over the next year a rash of cases was brought in the courts consequent upon the failure of the Tipperary Bank, in which thousands of Irish farmers were ruined. I received instructions in a considerable number of the actions and my income soared enormously that year. As for the twelve thousand he had given me, that I secreted away, squirreled in an oak chest, my war chest, ready for the day when a seat became available to me. I still borrowed money to pay off my earlier, regularly mounting debts but I knew I would need cash and a significant amount if I were successfully to contest a seat in Parliament. The oak treasure chest remained locked in my chambers, it was my secret hoard.
In the event it was not nearly enough, as I’ve already intimated to you, but early availability of such an amount of cash enabled me to confidently borrow further in the market as the election expenses mounted. I could not possibly have managed otherwise. So it was really John Sadleir’s cash, the result of his fraudulent behaviour that funded my success, in my scramble for a seat the House of Commons.
And I was a success, even though there will be many now who would claim I had failed as a Parliamentarian. I still have enemies!
I took my seat proudly as representative of the great Borough of Marylebone, all upright respectability in my dark suit, stiff black satin tie with a rigorously decorous demeanour to match. The Duke of Cambridge himself sat under the clock that evening; Earl Grey, Earl Granville, the Bishop of Oxford, the Earl of Hardwicke were there, as were Prussian and Sardinian ministers along with other members of foreign powers. For the occasion of my swearing-in coincided with a debate on a new Reform Bill.
I made my maiden speech that very night and it caused a considerable sensation not least because I called the Bill a sham and a delusion but I announced I meant to speak what I believed to be the truth. And I voted with the majority to defeat the Bill. So, when Lord Derby’s government then fell, within five weeks of my election, I was able to claim to the electorate when I stood again that I had voted with my conscience.
At the second election my supporters made much of my experiences in the courts: I was the eloquent exposer of Army maladministration—in reference to my withering cross-examination of Lord Lucan—and the glorious defender of Dr Simon Bernard. And as I’ve told you I was re-elected, top of the poll, with Sir Benjamin Hall as my stable-mate. Sadleir’s war chest had all but gone by that point. Nevertheless, my prospects were glittering.
Socially, I was even more sought after: there were private dinner parties in Berkeley Square, invitations to shooting parties in Norfolk and Scotland, and the State Dinner at the Albion in Aldersgate Street. Eulogies appeared in The Illustrated London News and the Monmouthshire Merlin. Briefs cascaded into my chambers: I acted in cases involving cock-fighting contests, reputations of actresses, the sale of Army commissions, trespass and breach of promise. And I forced myself upon the attention of the Government: one month I spoke fifteen times, the next month eight. I did not confine myself to legal topics but spoke on public health, weights and measures, the Royal Parks, the cleaning of the Serpentine and Crinan Canals. On Derby Day I rose to propose the House adjourn to enable members to attend at Epsom. And I even spoke on bribery and corruption.
The House enjoyed my jokes. When I fought passionately for the Licensed Victuallers against the import of cheap, adulterated continental wines I was able to announce that ‘I hope the Government will at least stand by the British quart—if not, I shall certainly make a pint of doing so!’ I drew admiration from the press and backslapping tributes from the publicans. I took up the rights of workers in the building industry—there were some five thousand men out of work in St Pancras alone—and I was regarded as the architect of the establishment of the London Trades Council. And I took up the cause of Garibaldi, seeking to unify Italy and bring down the Bourbons in Naples. So the Government was well aware of my presence and my energy, my wit and passion, my commitment and burning oratory and I was quietly informed that my name was to go forward to become the next Solicitor General, with a consequent knighthood.
Punch crowed, and predicted I would eventually become ‘LORD FITZEDWIN, the new Lord Chancellor.’
But … it never happened. I was struck down by my enemies. The mere thought now still embitters me, even after all these years. The glittering prizes lay tantalizingly within my grasp and all would have been well until … well, until that damnable accident in Canada, when the steamer Lady Elgin collided with a schooner, the Milwaukee, on Lake Superior. Both ships foundered.
I was in Naples with Garibaldi when the news came through. I did not know of it at the time but one of the men who drowned that fateful day was Herbert Ingram, the pro
prietor of The Illustrated London News, who over the years had supported me in more ways than one. And when I returned to England, to continue my duties as Recorder of Brighton and Member for Marylebone I was not aware that Ingram’s executor was going through the dead man’s private papers … and discovering information to my discredit.
But the memories are too painful, and I am tired. I’m not a young man any more, you know; I’m approaching seventy and a long discourse like this, even recounting my glory days, it exhausts me.
You look out of sorts. You’re pulling a face.
No, I’m not being evasive. I will talk of my fall, but another time, perhaps tomorrow, but for the moment—
You are still not satisfied! Ah, you feel I have been avoiding an issue I have mentioned several times. It has not been deliberate, I assure you. Have I not told you the truth about John Sadleir’s death? After all this time? But it’s Bentinck you want to hear about. My enemy, Lord George Bentinck and his demise on that fateful day when I first met Sadleir, at Lewis Goodman’s meeting at the Abbey Inn, near Welbeck.
All right, before I retire for the night I’ll tell you.
3
When a prisoner is found guilty of a serious offence such as forgery he is likely at some stage to find himself in Pentonville, almost certainly Newgate, until finally he’s moved along to be incarcerated in one of the prison hulks on the Thames. Edward Agar had been held in both Pentonville and Newgate, prior to his transportation to Australia—awaiting suitable transport, it seems.
You’ll recall Edward Agar. I had acted for him, at Lewis Goodman’s request, years earlier. And he had been present that day at the Welbeck Inn.
I naturally had occasion from time to time to visit the prisons, usually to interview prisoners like Dr Simon Bernard who would be committed to Newgate or some other place of incarceration while awaiting trial on the Queen’s Bench, or the Court of Sessions, or the Central Criminal Court—the Old Bailey.
Some time before I took my seat in Parliament, I was paying such a professional visit to Newgate to interview a client whose instructions I had received through Mr Fryer, the rascally attorney who had taken a lease for me at 27, Berkeley Square—and had, incidentally, lent me over £20,000, in the cheerful belief that he might thus have a future Lord Chancellor in his clutches with a likely huge future financial return. But that’s another matter.
I had concluded my business with my client—at this distance of time I’ve no recollection who he was—and was making my way back towards the main gates when one of the warders stopped me in the inner courtyard, laying a hand on my arm. I glared at him and he quickly removed his impertinent fingers. He grimaced.
‘Mr James? A word, if you please, sir.’
His tone was respectful enough.
‘What is it?’
‘There’s a prisoner, sir. He’s heard that you’re visiting one of the cells. He’s asked me to request that you spare him a few minutes. He wishes to discuss something with you.’
Somewhat irritated at the presumption, I said, ‘If he wants to talk with me he should make an approach through his attorney. I don’t have time—’
‘He’s most insistent, Mr James. He says it’s a matter of urgency. He says you know him … and some of his friends.’
The turnkey eyed me boldly. Men like this warder, they could make an additional living from the favours they bestowed on prisoners in their care: it always surprised me how money could so freely flow in and out of prison, along with pornography, food, drink, opium and a battalion of low-class whores. But it was the unsubtle reference to friends that held my attention. I had spent enough time with denizens of the underworld, in a professional capacity as well as rubbing shoulders with them in gambling houses, pugilistic encounters and race meetings, to be aware that it could be dangerous to ignore the wishes of some of those men who were sometimes designated as members of the ‘flash mob’.
‘Who is this man who wishes to talk with me?’ I demanded irritably.
‘Edward Agar. He was convicted of forgery and passing false cheques. He’s awaiting transportation. Due for the hulks at Portland any day now.’
I hesitated. I was reluctant to go back down to the cells, but on the other hand I was a little intrigued. Agar must know I would be able to do nothing for him, a convicted criminal; there was no appeal system under which I could assist him. But the turnkey had suggested the man had an urgent matter to discuss.
Curiosity got the better of me. I nodded. ‘All right. I’ll give him a few minutes of my time.’
The warder led me back into the forbidding building. A few moments later, after traversing the echoing corridor the cell door was thrown open and I entered. The iron door clanged shut behind me. I found myself in a narrow, damp-smelling room separated from Newgate Street by a thick stone wall. Dim light filtered through a high window overlooking the inner courtyard that housed the gallows on which many notorious criminals had met their end.
The man who faced me scarcely resembled the individual I had known. Imprisonment had diminished him. He no longer wore the trappings of his trade, elegant clothing, well-groomed whiskers, smart appearance: the coarse clothing of the prisoner’s garb made him seem smaller and less imposing. But it was not just his general appearance: his hair was greying, his lined features were considerably leaner, cheeks fallen in, his despairing shoulders were hunched and there was a haunted look about his deep-set eyes.
‘So, Agar,’ I said coldly enough, ‘they’ve done for you at last.’
His narrow head came up, and for a moment a flash of his old confident arrogance came back. ‘Oh, they caught me to rights, Mr James. So I’ve no regrets. I been at the trade for years. My only regret is there were a few years when I went straight. Waste of time, that was.’
‘And now your time is destined to be spent in Australia.’
‘That’s what I wanted to see you about, Mr James.’
‘It’s too late to ask for my help. I assisted you once before, at Lewis Goodman’s request. But he’s left the scene for France. I wasn’t involved at your trial, and I can’t do anything for you now. This meeting indeed, it’s quite irregular—’
‘It’s not me I want to talk about, sir. It’s Fanny.’
‘Who?’
‘Fanny Kay. My woman. They’re not treating her right. Not like they promised. And the child has died. She’s desperate. Living in poverty. And in a few days I’ll be in the hulks, then Australia!’
I was silent for a few moments, staring at him. If he thought that in my capacity as a lawyer I could help him, or his woman, he was mistaken. She would be a matter for the Parish, the Poor Law.
‘I don’t see how I can be of assistance,’ I said brusquely and turned to leave. His next words riveted me to the spot.
‘I’ll talk about the gold bullion robbery, Mr James. I’ll tell how it was done. And I’ll tell who did it. I’ll tell everything.’
The words hit me like a blow between the shoulder blades. I turned slowly to face Agar.
‘The gold bullion robbery?’
You surely must have heard about that event, my boy! It was the sensation of Europe! But … ah, I see, you were on the high seas, the Bella, on the Australian run. So the details never reached you at the time.
It was gold bullion, destined for the Crimea, for the pay of the troops. There were regular payments sent out, via Paris. This particular consignment was due for transfer in May 1855. As I recall from the newspapers at the time the gold was packed into three boxes by the firm of Abell, Spielman and Bell. The boxes, which were bound with hoops of iron, locked with Chubb locks and sealed, were transferred to the South Eastern Railway Company. Keys to the boxes were held only by senior railway officials, and by the captain of the Channel steamer, the Lord Warden.
It seems the sealed, iron-bound boxes were placed in the guard’s van and taken by rail to Folkestone. From there they were shipped to Boulogne, where the boxes were weighed. It was noted there was some slight discre
pancy in weight from the original manifesto but nevertheless the boxes, still sealed, were transferred by rail to Paris. It was there that the boxes were opened. They were found to contain not gold bullion, but lead shot! You can imagine the outcry, and the manhunt that was then launched. The British government claimed the gold must have been abstracted in France; the French government howled it must have been stolen in England. No one wanted to accept responsibility. Intensive investigations were undertaken, private detectives employed, railway workers and company employees questioned but all to no avail. It was as though the bullion had vanished into thin air—and there were no suspects identified, no theories as to how the gold could have been taken from iron-bound, sealed boxes—not even where the theft might have taken place.
Hundreds of people were interviewed, the months dragged by and the whole event remained a mystery. The police were helpless; the railway company was overwhelmed with anxiety; questions were asked about the Chubb locks, the security system—the honesty of railway employees. But no one could discover who had committed the crime, not even suggest how the job had been done.
And now here I found myself in a Newgate cell with a self-confessed and notorious forger due to be transported to Australia telling me he could hand me the key that would unlock the mystery of the missing Crimean gold bullion!
‘You were involved in the robbery?’ I demanded incredulously.
Edward Agar’s lean features were hollowed with anxiety as he stared at me, almost pleading. ‘He promised me he would give my share to Fanny. He said he would look after her, after my arrest. He promised me!’
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘That damned rogue Pierce!’
I took a deep breath. ‘You’d better tell me the whole story. From the beginning.’
‘You’ll make sure Fanny will be looked after? You promise me you’ll do what you can; promise me on the word of a gentleman?’
‘Tell me what you know,’ I replied grimly, still only half believing he had anything of worth to disclose.