The Petticoat Men (34 page)
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.
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. And 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.
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?