Dorothy Eden (34 page)

The Irish members demanded an investigation by a committee of the House of Commons of the charges made against their leader, but this was refused. It looked as if the matter would never be cleared up.

In vain Katharine and Charles, and their solicitor, George Lewis, studied the handwriting in the letters, comparing it with that of any possible suspect. Katharine knew that from start to finish Charles suspected the letters to be Willie’s handiwork, if not written by him, at least at his instigation. He went to great lengths to prove this, even spending the entire day in a tobacconist’s shop waiting for a woman to come home who might have evidence incriminating Captain O’Shea.

When, finally, the Government was forced to appoint a commission to enquire into the matter of the letters, and the business of the Land League itself, months had gone by, and months more were to go by before the Commission began its long weary weeks of sitting.

Counsel were formidable, the Attorney-General, Sir Richard Webster for
The Times
, Sir Charles Russell assisted by Mr. Asquith for Mr. Parnell. The list of witnesses was endless. There were peasants from Kerry, women in scarlet petticoats who were more accustomed to being barefoot in the bog than in shoes on London pavements, a convicted murderer brought in custody from Mountjoy prison, witnesses who could speak no English, journalists, professional rioters, landowners who related outrages in immeasurable detail, priests. Everyone but a culprit.

Captain O’Shea, in the witness-box, deplored the attempt to drag him into the matter, but since “the unfortunate question was asked, he should say he believed that the letters were all written by Mr. Parnell”.

Then at last Pat Egan in Dublin, who had been similarly incriminated by the forged letters, provided a clue. He remembered once having a begging letter from Richard Pigott, an impecunious Dublin journalist, who had spelt “hesitancy” in exactly that way, with an “e” instead of an “a”.

No time was wasted in having Mr. Pigott served with a subpoena. He came to London as bold as brass and stood in the witness-box, full of bravado. He wasn’t even intimidated by such brilliant and famous counsel, especially since Sir Richard Webster began so gently.

“How old are you?”

“Fifty-four.”

“What are you?”

“A journalist.”

“Have you been connected with journalism a great many years?”

“Yes.”

“In February 1868 were you prosecuted for an article written on the Manchester executions?”

Mr. Pigott was still jaunty. “I was.”

“Were you the proprietor of
The Irishman
?”

“Yes.”

Sir Richard mentioned the meeting that had taken place between Pigott, George Lewis, and Mr. Parnell.

“Did the name of Captain O’Shea crop up?”

“Yes. Mr. Lewis asked me to say whether or not Captain O’Shea had anything to do with procuring the letters. I said distinctly not. He said it was a matter of great relief to him because he had been convinced that Captain O’Shea had and so had Mr. Parnell.”

“Did you go to Ely Place at five o’clock on 26th October?”

“Yes.”

“Who were there?”

“Mr. Parnell and Mr. Lewis.”

“What passed?”

“Mr. Parnell proposed to ask certain questions. I told him I declined to be cross-examined. His manner was exceedingly threatening. After repeating his assurance that I had forged the letters he said they were in a position to prove that I had committed other forgeries.”

This comparatively innocuous questioning went on for some time. Mr. Pigott, a plump balding amiable little man, was perfectly composed and seemed to be enjoying himself. His answers came out easily, without hesitation. If he was nervous, he managed to hide it. It would not be the first time his tongue had got him out of a tight spot.

But when Sir Charles Russell, defending counsel, began his cross-examination, things were not so easy.

“Mr. Pigott, would you be good enough to write some words on that sheet of paper for me?”

Mr. Pigott sat in the witness-box, took the quill pen handed to him by a clerk, and wrote the words dictated. “Livelihood. Likelihood. Hesitancy.” And finally his own name. He wasn’t quite so sure of himself now. He suspected a trap.

“Mr. Pigott, I put it to you, did you not communicate with Lord Spencer as far back as 1873?”

“No.”

“Offering, I will remind you, to give valuable information for money?”

“No, I have no recollection of that.”

“Did you write to any Home Secretary offering to give any information for money?”

“When?”

“I am asking you.”

“No, I did not.”

“Will you swear you did not?”

“I will not swear.”

“Will you swear you did not to several?”

“I will swear.”

“To two?”

“No, not to two.”

“To one?”

“To none, as far as I can recollect.”

“Did you write to Sir George Trevelyan offering to make a revelation?”

“Not a revelation.”

“Well, to give information.”

“No, neither one or the other.”

“What did you write about?”

“As far as I can recollect I wrote to him asking for some pecuniary help.”

He was floundering now, visibly shaken. He didn’t know whether he had misspelt those words he had been asked to write, and hadn’t expected Sir Charles Russell to have copies of letters he had written to Archbishop Walsh, when his conscience had been bothering him. Mr. Lewis had asked the Archbishop for copies of the correspondence but he had declined to send them on the ground that the secrecy of the communications was secured by the seal of the confessional. And now this adamant man persecuting him with questions had the revealing letters after all. And was being sarcastic about the seal of the confessional.

“You are a Catholic, are you not?”

“I am.”

“That must have amused you, I suppose.”

But Mr. Pigott indignantly denied that he had been amused by thinking he could shed his sins and have his secret kept.

Sir Charles was reading another part of that wretched confessional to Archbishop Walsh.

“What do you say to that?” he rapped.

“It proves to me clearly that I had not the letters in mind.”

“Then if it proves to you clearly that you had not the letters in your mind, what had you?”

“I have no idea.”

“Can you give their Lordships any clue of the most indirect kind?”

“I cannot.”

“Or from whom you heard it?”

“No.”

“Or when?”

“Or where?”

He was an automaton now, repeating words. “Or where.”

“Have you ever mentioned this fearful matter, whatever it is?”

“No.”

“It is still locked up—hermetically sealed—in your own bosom?”

He had lost the sense of what was being said. He twisted his hands and got out desperately, “No, it has gone away out of my own bosom.”

Charles came home that night with a bottle of champagne. It was all over bar the shouting, he said. Tomorrow that deplorable seedy scoundrel Pigott would tell them how much he had been paid for forging the letters, and who had paid him. So another enemy had been removed.

But Katharine was wary now. Nothing ever went right for very long, especially in politics. It was Pigott today, who would it be tomorrow?

She had written to Willie after his open declaration of enmity when he had been in the witness-box, and told him that he was never to attempt to set foot in her house again. If he insisted on seeing the children she could not refuse, but they must go to him. She would never open her door to him again. She was not much more civil to Anna who had now taken Willie’s side completely. She was getting too old and too tired for conciliation. Her obsession to love and protect Charles, and accept all his enemies as her own, was now overpowering. Only her children, and dear Aunt Ben who was now completely bed-ridden, occupied the rest of her heart.

“
The Times
will owe you an apology,” she said.

“Don’t you remember I said I would get one from them eventually. Isn’t it something to have proved the infallibility of that English institution? Perhaps I’ll be remembered for that, if nothing else.”

Katharine had been tense for too long to be able to relax so easily.

“Are you sure Pigott will confess tomorrow?”

“If you had seen him this afternoon you wouldn’t have been in any doubt. Sir Charles had him reduced to incoherence. Poor devil. He’s got a family in Dublin he’s feeling conscience-stricken about. He’ll say he did it for them, of course.”

“If they take after their father it would be better to let them starve,” Katharine said bitterly.

“Kate, that’s not like you, being vindictive.”

“Look what he’s done to you!” she flamed. “A whole year of this suspicion. Dirt flung at you from all sides. How could I feel any sympathy towards him or anyone belonging to him?”

Charles’ eyebrows went up in mock distress.

“Oh dear, and I had thought we were going to have a party. Shall I put the champagne away for a more suitable occasion?”

As always, her hot temper faded and she was filled with remorse.

“I’m sorry, don’t let me turn into a shrew.”

“You! I know better than that.”

The very quietness of his voice dispelled her vindictive mood, and the evening was not a disaster, after all. The champagne made them feel confident and optimistic, and they talked of the future, a thing they seldom dared to do. When Aunt Ben died, as she must do very soon, for she had had her ninety-seventh birthday, Katharine had decided to sell Wonersh Lodge and buy a house in Brighton. She had always liked Brighton and being near the sea. There was an excellent train service to London. If they could find a house at the far end of the town near the downs there would be few passers-by, few to stare.

“Then I am to be with you, Kate?”

“Of course you are. Aren’t I your wife? Aren’t we as married as two people ever could be?”

He said only, “I’ll be very glad to leave Regent’s Park. That house was never a home.”

“And Willie will never darken our door,” Katharine said, following her own trend of thought.

“I think you’ve been reading Mrs. Henry Wood, my love.”

“And Ireland will get Home Rule, and we’ll live happily ever after.”

“Do people ever live happily ever after?”

“I don’t know. We’ll find out.”

Nothing ever did go smoothly, however, for the next morning the witness, Richard Pigott, failed to appear. For a little while it looked as if the mystery would be unsolved after all.

The President of the Commission said, “Where is the witness?”

The Attorney General replied, “My lords, so far as I am concerned I have no knowledge of the witness’s whereabouts. I am informed that Mr. Soames sent to his hotel and that he is not there and has not been there since eleven o’clock last night.”

Sir Charles Russell, defending counsel, said, “My lords, if there is any delay in his appearance I must ask your Lordships to issue a warrant for his apprehension immediately.”

The President replied that he would direct it to be made out.

But before this was done, information arrived that, Mr. Pigott, in the presence of Mr. Shannon, an Irish Sergeant of Police, had made a statement at his hotel the previous evening. The wretched man admitted that the letters had been forged by himself.

He had not been able to resist the bait offered by an Irishman, Mr. Houston, secretary to the Irish Loyal and Patriotic Union, who had been collecting proofs of Nationalist complicity in crime. He had compiled a pamphlet called
Parnellism Unmasked
and had suggested to his old friend Richard Pigott, an ingenious fellow and then in dire poverty, that he would be well paid for any evidence he could produce against Parnell or the Nationalist party. He would pay especially well for any documents. So, after collecting a considerable number of guineas for travelling expenses, Mr. Pigott decided to set the scene in Paris, and intimated to Mr. Houston that he had discovered incriminating documents in a black bag, probably left in mistake by some of the Invincibles (who had been responsible for the Phoenix Park murders). Among these documents were letters signed by Parnell and Patrick Egan.

Mr. Houston, in his eagerness, accepted the letters on their face value. He paid Mr. Pigott six hundred pounds, a fortune for that impecunious scoundrel, and took his booty to England.

The astonishing thing was that the manager of
The Times
accepted the authenticity of the letters almost without question. He discussed them only with
The Times
’ solicitor, and a hand-writing expert, and then proceeded to make a deadly attack on a man so famous and eminent as the leader of the Irish party.

It was a squalid story, and the mighty
Times
didn’t much relish making the stiff apology which appeared in their columns the next day.

“We deem it right to express our regret most fully and sincerely at having been induced to publish the letters in question as Mr. Parnell’s.”

A few days later the flight of Mr. Pigott was found to have ended in Madrid. He had shot himself miserably and sordidly in a hotel bedroom.

And Mr. Parnell became, temporarily, a national hero in England, the country he professed to hate. Wherever he went he was cheered. When he next rose to address the House of Commons he received a great ovation. The whole of the Liberal party rose to do homage to him. Mr. Gladstone turned and bowed to him particularly, an open indication to the whole house that he was still firmly with Parnell and the Home Rule Bill. Mr. Gladstone, it was true, was still only leader of the Opposition, but that would not last forever. The Conservatives were likely to lose the next election, and then the old man, over eighty now, but still indefatigable, would be back.

All this must have been in Mr. Parnell’s mind as he listened to the cheering. But if it was he gave no sign. He stood erect among the standing crowd, waiting patiently for them to resume their seats. The incident for which they applauded him was over. Now they must get on with more important business.

Composed, self-confident, exuding his extraordinary magnetism, he waited. And when at last the clapping died away he began to speak in a quiet calm voice: