Breaths of Suspicion (17 page)

Contemptuously, and yet a little breathlessly, I snarled, ‘Money? Help me? You’ve already confessed to me that you’re insolvent.’

‘That doesn’t mean I can’t lay my hand on a considerable amount of money.’

I was breathing hard. The devil of temptation burned in my chest. I could hardly believe what I was hearing, that the confessions of this financial giant were so heinous, that his attitude
was so nonchalant but I was hooked by the bait he seemed to be dangling. In the silence that followed, John Sadleir watched me with care as the blue cigar smoke curled about his head.

‘In just one week’s time,’ he murmured at last, ‘the Tipperary Bank will fail. That failure will be rapidly followed by the collapse of a small bank at Newcastle-on-Tyne, and then, most likely, the banking giant London and Capital will go to the wall. There will be much wailing in the City. Collapse of large companies. And no doubt a number of suicides.’

‘How can you be certain?’ I demanded.

‘I have drawn a cheque on the last named bank. This morning they have refused to pay: they will soon announce the reason: in the City everyone will then be made aware of the fact that there are no funds available in my account. The news will spread. There will be a rush upon the banks. It will be disclosed that my debts amount to almost three hundred thousand pounds. I will be ruined; thousands of shareholders in the banks will be ruined.’ He paused, watching me with a cynical gleam in his eyes. ‘On the other hand you, of course,
you
may well profit.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Think of the deluge of cases that will be brought in the courts! There’s enough work there to last for a decade at least. And aren’t you one of the leading members of the Bar as far as bankruptcy cases are concerned?’

He was right, of course.

‘Not that the vast income you’ll receive from such briefs will help you much in your ambitions. The money will come in slowly. What you need is an immediate injection of cash. Money that can be used to buy yourself a seat in Parliament.’

I could not resist the obvious question. ‘So what do you—facing ruin—intend to do?’

He was silent. His face had paled somewhat but his voice was strong and controlled. ‘Intend to do? I’ve already told you. I need to
die, after writing the appropriate letter, of course. Die, by my own hand. I have it all planned. Or most of it. The means, the location …. There is just one more piece to put in place.’

‘Me?’ I guessed. ‘But how can I … assist in your death?’

‘I need you to identify the corpse that will be found on Hampstead Heath next Saturday morning.’

My hand was shaking when I reached again for the brandy decanter. We had dined well, the wines had been of good vintage and I had now taken several measures of brandy but I did not feel inebriated. My mind was whirling, questions turned and clashed in my mind and I still could not quite understand what Sadleir expected of me. But the glimmerings were there, the chinks of light in the darkness.

‘Today,’ he said quietly, ‘I drew £14,000 from my account in the Tipperary Bank. If you agree to identify my corpse next Saturday, I will pay you £8,000. Cash. Immediately. I know I can trust your word as a gentleman to keep to your side of the bargain if I pay you the money in advance.’

I was aware of the irony in his words. But suspicion was hardening in my chest. ‘The corpse I identify—’

‘Will not be mine, naturally.’

The silence grew around us, extended. Faintly I heard the chimes of a distant clock on the night air. I shivered. ‘But how can you possibly arrange that?’ I protested weakly.

‘There is a surgeon at Guy’s Hospital who will be … accommodating. We have an understanding. Of a financial nature, of course. He has already identified a likely candidate who resembles me in height, weight. These things are easily arranged, you may be surprised to hear. Or perhaps not. Surgeons have long dealt in a morbid traffic in the dead, haven’t they, ever since the days of Burke and Hare?’

I took a deep breath. ‘Why do you wish to involve me?’

‘Respectability.’ He almost sneered the word. ‘A fellow lawyer.
A fellow Liberal. A fellow member of the Reform Club. Your word, as a popular Queen’s Counsel, a man of note, will be accepted. Of course, you will not be alone. I have already arranged for another person of
reputation
to stand beside you in the identification.’

‘But won’t there be an attempt to call members of your family to make an identification?’ I argued feebly.

‘My brother has gone to Ireland. There are no other relatives. No, I have arranged that the authorities will seek no persons to view the corpse, other than two respectable members of the Reform Club. That will suffice.’

I sat for several minutes in silence. Sadleir made no further attempt to persuade me. He merely waited. And it is true: he
did
know me. He knew of my financial state; he knew of my desires; and perhaps he was right in his estimation of my character, my burning ambitions, my lack of scruples.

My mouth was dry. ‘When did you first decide to contact me for this … purpose?’

He shrugged. ‘I told you. The first time we met at the Abbey Inn that day, it laid a foundation. You were involved with Goodman: he thought you might be interested in his proposition that day. The simple fact that he thought you might join in with the proposal he was about to make gave me a perspective regarding your character. I duly noted that fact—even if the proposition he made that day did not come to fruition. Now, some years later, and having followed your career, realized the extent of your ambition, I knew that you’d be the right man to approach.’

And he was right. In a flare of decision I sat up, held his glance firmly. I took a deep breath. ‘To do what you ask … I’d want the whole fourteen thousand.’

He shook his head. ‘Impossible. I will shortly be on a boat bound for Valparaiso and I need something to pay for my immediate passage. The most I can offer is ten thousand.’

We finally settled on an immediate payment of £12,000.

I
was in a highly nervous state as I waited in the Reform Club the following Sunday morning. It was a bitterly cold day. The Serpentine had frozen over again—it had already happened the previous November—and there were more than two inches of ice on the Long Waters at Kensington Gardens. I heard someone say in the club that there were upwards of three hundred skaters on the Lower Pond that morning. And other stories had already begun to circulate: there was a rumour that the body of a gentleman had been discovered by a passing labourer, near Jack Straw’s Tavern on Hampstead Heath. The body had been convulsed, the face contorted into a mask of pain. Nearby lay a discarded silver mug, probably flung away in death agonies. In the pocket of the corpse had been found an empty bottle that had contained prussic acid. There was also a letter. The whispers were circulating that the corpse was that of a man of public reputation, and the lifeless body was being held by the police in the dead house, for positive identification before further information was released.

The police constable arrived at the Reform Club late that morning.

I was alone in the library, an unread newspaper in my shaking hand when he was shown in by the porter; he entered, varnished hat in hand, respectful in demeanour. ‘Mr James? There has
been a discovery of a body on Hampstead Heath. Identification is required. The Commissioner has requested that I ask for your assistance in the matter. Would you be able to accompany me to the dead house, sir?’

A surgeon at Guy’s Hospital, I thought, now the Commissioner himself. I wondered at what level their remuneration had been settled. Sadleir had certainly prepared the ground well. But just how well was yet to be revealed to me: when I arrived at the dead house—there was only one mortuary in London at that time—I was shown to a small waiting room in the dreary low-roofed building next to the hospital. There was another person already seated there. He did not rise, or attempt to speak to me, though when he glanced up, coughing into a kerchief, he favoured me with a brief nod.

With a feeling of shock, I recognized him at once. The eminent Dr Thomas Wakley.

Wakley had been known as a bare-fist fighter in his youth and throughout his career had been noted for his aggressive, bustling personality, but he was now a pale shadow of the man he had been. He was famous, of course, for being the surgeon who had founded the medical journal
The Lancet
, he had served as a Radical MP for a period and had conducted some notable campaigns on medical and political matters over the years. He had long argued for the establishment of a system of coroners and when that battle had been won he himself had been the first to be appointed coroner, at Finsbury. But when I stared at him that morning I saw an elderly, lank-haired, grey-bearded individual racked with consumption, crouched over his sputum-stained handkerchief, his skin pale, almost transparent and his eyes milky with pain.

But his name—in view of his reputation—would be of significant importance when added to mine as an identifier of the corpse of John Sadleir, the banker MP.

Someone else entered the room behind me. I turned, and to
my surprise recognized the police inspector well acquainted with me and my history: Inspector Redwood had seemed to dog my footsteps over the years. Now, he seemed as surprised as I to meet. He glanced past me towards Wakley, frowned, then after a moment’s hesitation he handed me a piece of paper. I recall the manner in which he studied me with some curiosity as I read the handwritten suicide note.

‘
I cannot live. I have ruined too many. I could not live and see their agony. I have committed diabolical crimes unknown to any human being. They will now appear, bringing my family and others to distress, causing to all shame and grief that they should never have known. I blame no one but attribute all to my own infamous villainy.…
’

I did not need to read more: after all, I had helped Sadleir compose the missive which was to be found on the corpse on Hampstead Heath. I looked up: Redwood was still staring at me, a strange, uncertain light in his eyes.

The police constable who had summoned me from the Reform Club spoke to Wakley in a subdued tone. The frail old man nodded, rose to his feet and then shuffled away with the officer into the adjoining room in the dead house. I waited, holding Redwood’s glance with all the coolness I could summon in spite of the thudding of my heart.

‘Mr James,’ Redwood murmured at last, almost to himself. ‘Death seems to ride upon your shoulder.’

I frowned. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

His features were impassive. ‘As I recall, we first met when that unfortunate girl was pulled from the Thames some years ago. The suicide, we assumed. A girl known to you. Then it was you who later reported the discovery of that body in the sewers—the body the Commissioner ordered us to make no further inquiries about. And then, well, I’m still wondering about the events surrounding the death of Lord George Bentinck, and whatever part you might have played in it—’

‘He died of natural causes,’ I snapped angrily, ‘and it was nothing to do with me!’

‘So you’ve said before now. And here you are today, turning up to identify the body of a dead man, a suicide on Hampstead Heath.’

I still held his glance firmly. I handed the suicide letter back to him. ‘This communication seems to explain everything. Clearly
felo de se
. I am merely here, summoned to help identify the corpse for formal purposes.’

The door to the other room opened and Wakley and the police constable returned. The constable glanced apologetically at Inspector Redwood and then looked at me. ‘Mr James?’

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 proprietor 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.