Fraudsters and Charlatans (6 page)

Mary claimed that she had been to the East Indies and America, and that her child, whose father was a Frenchman, had been born in Philadelphia by the side of a river. At the end of October her son died. Mary soon lost whatever grip she had had on reason and began setting fire to the beds in the Starling home. She was sacked.

In February 1817 Mary returned to Devon, telling her parents she was about to depart for the Indies. She impressed them with her learning, and spent time with her younger sister, 15-year-old Susan, prattling away to her in a language which her father believed to be French. This was probably what she later referred to as her ‘lingo',
³
a language she had made up, probably to amuse children, and lend her stories of foreign travel some verisimilitude. After ten days she sent a trunk of clothes to Bristol and set out on the road alone. She later claimed to have spent three days living with gypsies.

Arriving in Bristol on 10 March with enough money for cheap lodgings, Mary met Eleanor Joseph, a Jewish girl who was staying with a Mrs Neale and her two daughters and who let Mary share her room for a shilling a night. A ship was due to sail for America at the end of March, for which the cheapest fare was five guineas, providing she bought her own food. To raise money for the fare, Mary and Eleanor went out begging together, but at first they were not successful. While on the road, Mary saw some French lace-makers from Normandy, and was fascinated by their high lace headdresses. More importantly, she saw that their unusual appearance was attracting attention. Mary was wearing a black shawl and Eleanor suggested she wear it as a turban. It took but a moment for Mary to ‘outlandish'
⁴
her appearance, adding to the effect by talking in her lingo.

There was one drawback to the scheme, which Mary had not anticipated. French was not as exotic as she had supposed – there were many people in the city who spoke the language, and she was often obliged to be fast on her feet to avoid detection. One gentleman, eager to help her, wrote the name of the French consul on a sheet of paper for her. Still lacking the fare, Mary did what she was best at: on 1 April 1817 she abandoned her possessions and left Bristol. She may have reasoned that in the country she was far less likely to encounter people who spoke French. Three miles north-west of Bristol was the country home of Lord de Clifford, where the estate workers took pity on the poor lost foreign lady and gave her a dinner of roast veal, greens and potatoes. Assuming she was French, they decided to take her to see Lord de Clifford's French cook. Mary tried to get away, but was obliged to go in, where, confronted by the cook, addressed him in lingo. He asked if she was Spanish, and she quickly replied ‘
Si
'. If he had been able to speak Spanish she would have been in some trouble, but he could not; however, one of the servants had some Spanish friends in Bristol and offered to take Mary there. At the very first opportunity, Mary bolted.

When she was able successfully to pull the wool over people's eyes, Mary regarded her escapades as a huge joke. Thus far, this was probably the most fun she had ever had. Begging a bed for the night at the cottage of a farm labourer named Yates, she was able to hear him talking to his wife in the next room. Having admitted her to their home, they were both now quaking with fear in case she should be a robber in disguise. Mary was obliged to stifle her fits of laughter.

The following day she met a man on the road, the son of a wheelwright, who, intrigued by her lingo, decided to attach himself to her. He introduced her to a French governess, when again Mary managed to convince her listeners that she was Spanish, and slipped away. The wheelwright's son was not to be eluded so easily though, and caught up with her as she was resting outside a public house. When he announced that he had been given money to look after her, the locals all gathered around Mary and started offering her things to eat and drink, which she declined. Told that she was Spanish, they offered her brandy, which she refused, as she disliked alcoholic drinks. She finally accepted a little rum well diluted with water, and some biscuits. On the road again, the wheelwright's son doggedly by her side, she met two men, one of them claiming he could speak Spanish. By now Mary must have thought she could tough out anything and boldly spoke to him in lingo. He spoke back to her, neither of them understanding the other. Eventually the others asked him what she was saying. Having boasted he spoke Spanish, he was unwilling to admit he could not understand her and said that she was indeed Spanish, that she came from Madrid Hill and that her father and mother were following her.

Mary moved on, the wheelwright's son still trotting after her. She tried to discourage him by showing him the paper with the name and address of the French consul on it. Instead, after treating her to a beefsteak dinner, he took her back to the French governess, where she was shown off to some visitors, and it was suggested that he take her to a Spanish family. Mary had by now learned some valuable lessons: first of all that people were fascinated by foreigners, and anxious to help; and also that some would pretend to understand her lingo rather than admit ignorance. The last people she wanted to see, however, were the Spanish family, and on the way to see them Mary finally managed to give her unwanted companion the slip. On the following day she made her way along the road to the village of Almondsbury, some 7 miles north of Bristol.

This pretty village of just a few hundred inhabitants, its cottages nestling in the shelter of Almondsbury Hill, had for some years attracted the attention of wealthy merchants from Bristol, who built manor houses there. Of these, the finest was sixteenth-century Knole, with a distinctive octagonal stone tower, its magnificent hilltop location affording views across the Severn. The Knole estate covered 1,500 acres, and included a deer park, woodlands, dairy farms and cottages. It was an ideal setting in which a mysterious feral girl could wander at will.

On the evening of 3 April Mary arrived, tired, hungry and footsore, and knocked on the door of the first house she came to, the home of the village cobbler. Given some bread and milk, Mary mimed with folded hands against her cheek that she wanted to sleep, but the cobbler's wife was not happy about admitting her to the house, and took her to the overseer of the poor, Mr Hill, whose job it was to bring anyone suspected of vagrancy before the Justice of the Peace. Mary's foreign persona was the perfect defence. It was impossible to tell if she was a vagrant, and she could hardly be returned to her own parish. When Hill offered her a shilling from parish funds, she refused it, seeming not to understand what it was, and indicated again by a graceful and appealing gesture of her hands that she wanted to sleep.

Still puzzled, Hill took Mary to the home of the Reverend George Hunt, noted for both his learning and his benevolence. He was not at home, but his wife, who was not so noted, took one glance at the be-turbaned Mary, who was making gestures to a sofa, and said she didn't like the look of her. Hill then remembered that at Knole Park there was a Greek manservant who was much travelled and spoke several languages, and decided to take her there. To Mary, this was the de Clifford incident all over again. At the start, pretending to be French had seemed sufficient, as it had been for her father and sister, but so near to the great trading city of Bristol, she was hardly able to stir a step without encountering people fluent in European languages. As Hill drew her near to Knole, Mary tried to run away again, and only with difficulty could he persuade her to continue.

Knole was then leased by Samuel Worrall, a 63-year-old magistrate, Town Clerk of Bristol and co-director of the Tolzey Bank. He had earned himself the nickname of Devil Worrall, probably because of his bad temper, rude manners and bouts of hard drinking. His wife, Elizabeth, some fourteen years his junior, had been born in Massachusetts, the daughter of a distiller who, as a loyalist during the Revolution, had been obliged to flee to England with his family in the 1770s, after which all his American properties had been confiscated. Known for her interest in literature, she was regarded as something of an intellectual, and was also kind and sympathetic. Now that her two sons had grown to adulthood, her interest would almost certainly have been aroused by a new project.

Mary now came face to face with the Worralls for the first time. They noted her plain clothing and short, slight build. She was undoubtedly attractive, with dark hair, full lips, rosy cheeks and even white teeth. Despite her years of domestic service, her hands were clean, white and soft, another indication that she was no common vagrant. The only unusual aspect of her clothing was the black turban and a red and black shawl arranged loosely and tastefully around her shoulders in what they perceived as the Asiatic fashion. Her other clothing consisted of a black stuff gown with a muslin frill about the neck, black worsted stockings and leather shoes. She carried with her a small bundle, the contents of which they examined. It contained what was later described as ‘a very few necessaries'
⁵
and a small piece of soap wrapped in linen. In her pockets were a few halfpennies and a ‘bad'
⁶
(presumably counterfeit) sixpence.

The Greek manservant was summoned, and asked her questions in a number of languages. Mary decided not to make the same mistake as before when she had claimed to be Spanish. She reacted only with blank incomprehension. He gave his opinion that she must be a foreign gypsy.

It was obvious that Mary could not remain at Knole. She was a homeless girl with a counterfeit coin in her pocket, and it was out of the question for a man in Worrall's position to harbour someone who might be a criminal. But Mary had from the start worked her fascination on Elizabeth, who decided that she should be given a room at the local inn, the Bowl, some half a mile away, and ordered her maid and footman to accompany her there.

As Mary entered the comfortable parlour of the inn, she saw something that changed the whole direction of her imposture. On the wall was a picture of a pineapple. Botanical prints were then popular decorative items, and usually bore the name of the subject in Latin, which in the case of the pineapple was
Ananas
. Confident that she would not easily be confronted by someone fluent in the language of the land of the pineapple, Mary moved her origins eastward. She pointed to the picture, became very excited and managed by gestures to convince everyone present that the fruit was from her home country. The effect was electrifying. Doubts and puzzlement gave way to wonder. Having found a homeland, Mary plunged into her role and invented a solemn ritual. Accepting a cup of tea she first bowed her head as if in prayer before drinking it, no doubt inspired by memories of the Jewish practice of uttering blessings before food and drink. After drinking the tea, she insisted on carefully washing the cup before accepting more. So enthralled was her audience that she added more strangeness to her image. Having previously had no problem in identifying a sofa as somewhere to rest, when shown to her room Mary now pretended never to have seen a bed before, and lay down on the floor to sleep. The landlady's daughter was obliged to lie on the bed to demonstrate what it was for. Mary then knelt to say some prayers, and finally curled up and slept peacefully, leaving the whole village of Almondsbury in a ferment of speculation.

Early the next morning, Elizabeth Worrall hurried over to see Mary, with a bundle of clean linen. Mary was sitting despondently by the fire, probably wondering what to do next, and greeted Elizabeth with great delight. Soon afterwards, Reverend Hunt arrived with an armful of books. Guessing that the turbaned lady came from Asia, he had thought of showing her illustrations of far-away places in the hope of identifying her homeland. As the pages turned he watched her carefully, and then to his surprise saw a flicker of interest in pictures of China. Seeing a picture of a rowing boat, she mimed a much larger vessel, so they would understand she had come to England by ship.

Elizabeth was determined to bring Mary back to Knole, but to her surprise found the girl reluctant to accompany her. She had sensed the distrust of the Greek manservant and felt uncomfortable in his presence. On the walk back to Knole, Mary decided to impress her benefactress with her piety, and on passing the church, went up to the door and tried the handle, looking very disappointed when she was unable to go in. It was Good Friday and at Knole the servants were eating hot cross buns. Mary cut the cross from the top of a bun and held it to her heart. This only increased the mystery surrounding the girl.

Elizabeth, still unsure if the young woman was genuine, summoned Mary to her and expressed her fears that she was being imposed upon: ‘if . . . distress has driven you to this expedient, make a friend of me; I am a female as yourself, and can feel for you, and will give you money and clothes, and will put you on your journey, without disclosing your conduct to anyone.'
⁷
She reminded Mary that if it was found that she was deceiving her, Mr Worrall had the power to send her to prison and commit her to hard labour. This was Mary's opportunity to come clean without penalty, but she did not take it. The chance of playing a part was too good to miss, and she greeted Elizabeth's address with no sign of understanding, responding in her own made-up language.

Elizabeth was convinced, and determined to find out the stranger's name. Time and again she pointed to herself, saying her own name. Mary, unsure what to do, did not respond at first. She was offered pen and ink, but hardly liking to risk producing convincing Asian writing, shrank away. Her mind was busy producing a delightfully mysterious and exotic name, a name like no other. Pretending to understand at last, she pointed to herself and spoke: ‘Caraboo'. Elizabeth Worrall was enchanted. John Wells, author of
Princess Caraboo: Her True Story
, suggests that the name may have been inspired by ‘King Caroo', an eighteenth-century gypsy king, born only 20 miles from Witheridge. A master of disguise, he too had had adventures in America, and Mary must surely have known of him. Caraboo was now shown around the house, where she demonstrated a great deal of interest in Chinese panelling and an oriental table. At supper, Mary, not exactly sure what a Chinese Christian actually ate, showed disgust for beer, cider and meat, and accepted only vegetables and water. That night she slept in the servants' quarters.