The Petticoat Men (49 page)
‘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.
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 ought 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.
He was immediately shocked, assuming it was a police officer. The sight of his captor looking like some biblical apparition frightened the gentleman even more; he looked about him for assistance; did not, however, call a nearby constable.
Mackie said very quietly into his ear, ‘Mr Wade, I think. I saw you in Mudeford,’ and then led him, silently, down towards the River Thames and the Embankment.
The terrified man had become very pale and was perspiring profusely. He tried to loosen his cravat with his free arm. He kept casting small, cowed glances at the tall, strange man in the cloak who still held his elbow in such an intimidating manner. He even actually wondered whether he could be having a religious hallucination.
When they got to the river Mackie wasted no time. ‘I am not a policeman,’ he said quietly, ‘and I don’t care if you’re a sodomite.’
People hurried past, on their own business; the end of the day. The young gentleman stared at the man in the fisherman’s cloak. ‘Then why are you making me walk here? Are you from the Church? Did the bishop send you? But I am on my way to him now, I told him I would wait until the jury returned.’
‘That would be Bishop Julius of course.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. So you must be from the Church, so why are you holding me like – like a prisoner? Who are you?’
‘You don’t need to know my name but everybody calls me Mackie. I am not from the Church, I’m from Mudeford. I recognise you, Mr Wade. You came to Mudeford the same day as Mr Roberts. The newspapers said you witnessed Lord Arthur Clinton’s last letter.’
If it was possible, the gentleman turned paler still as the smoke-darkened sun moved towards the horizon and more and more people hurried by.
Mackie at last let go of the arm of this person, who stared at his tormentor like a mesmerised rabbit.
‘What happened to Lord Arthur Clinton in Mudeford?’ said Mackie. ‘It was not scarlet fever. But I expect you know that, Mr Wade, as you told Johnny Hewlettson you were a doctor, although I think the title was removed from you in later reports. What about the letter you were supposed to have witnessed?’
‘But I didn’t stay! I don’t know anything!’
‘Perhaps you witnessed that letter in London after he died?’
‘No! I’m not
that
Mr Wade, there must be some mistake, I think there was another Mr Wade, yes, funny coincidence, there were
two
Mr Wades there, yes, I noted that, wasn’t that strange? I wasn’t there when he died, no, not at all… I was on my way back to London.’
Mackie spoke very slowly and softly. ‘Try again,’ he said. ‘Otherwise I’ll either take you straight back and give you to the Lord Chief Justice, or throw you into the river. You can choose. What happened to Lord Arthur Clinton in Mudeford?’
The wild man seemed now to loom over the younger man like Judgement Day. Although he kept his voice low, Mr Wade began to gabble, quite certain his fate was the river below, or worse.
‘He had taken the poison before we got there, he was raving about everybody, blaming everybody, he was raving about getting to France – but when we got there he couldn’t even get out of bed.’
‘What poison?’
‘He had it there. And then – and then – and then when – when we weren’t looking, that is, he – he must’ve taken more. To be certain. That’s all I know.’