The Petticoat Men (41 page)

‘I am not sure that I understand you, sir,’ said Mr Ouvry stiffly.

Mackie sighed. ‘The builder made a coffin and why? Because it was not possible to leave Lord Arthur’s uncollected body unattended any longer, in a house where he was residing on the promise of rent to be paid that wasn’t. Incidentally a young girl of ten wrapped his body in her shawl because it seemed to her unkind not to, even though he was a stranger to her, because her parents had taught her charity. The cart-driver came from Christchurch to drive the body to Christchurch Cemetery: why? Because nobody had engaged anybody to do so. As you know, the cemetery
was
paid because the body would not have been buried there else.’

Mr Ouvry did indeed know this last piece of information, having telegraphed the money himself, from his own pocket, under the name of the Duke of Newcastle. However, he spoke firmly.

‘The lawyer engaged by the family, Mr Roberts, paid bills. He paid the money owing to the King’s Arms Hotel: of that I am certain, I have the receipt.’

‘Oh yes of course! The King’s Arms is run by an important businessman of the town, who has many important contacts as you and I both know. The people who have asked me to speak to you are not of that class, but they’re not less worthy of payment – in fact more so, for many of them did what they did out of kindness. The King’s Arms Hotel, as you possibly also know, refused to extend further credit to this person, which is the reason he came to Mudeford in an unpaid-for cabriolet, not scarlet fever. The Nelson Inn in Mudeford, forewarned, would not take him in. So the egg lady gave him her small cottage as refuge.’

‘The – excuse me – egg lady?’

‘Not everybody, even in Mudeford, was interested in sheltering Lord Arthur Clinton, Mr Ouvry, once they realised who he was, which wasn’t very difficult – Mr Newlyn at the King’s Arms told us who he was, course he did. We all know each other round the area, and we all read the newspapers, Mr Ouvry. We guessed the rest. The egg lady – that’s her trade, she sells eggs – her name is actually Marguerita but I am sure that’s not information of interest – lives very frugal, but she gave him her cottage and moved into the hen shed, hoping to earn eightpence per night while she did so, which would have been a useful sum to her if he’d stayed a while. Johnny Hewlettson and his daughter took it in turn to bring food every day, cooked by his wife. And Johnny Hewlettson telegraphed you about the situation, and called for a doctor from Bournemouth. Those two young people who came down from London to see Lord Arthur gave the money for that.’

‘What two young people?’ Mr Ouvry was at once alert, but so was Mackie, at once realising his mistake. He shrugged.

‘I don’t know who they were, sorry. But I’m talking for the people who asked me to come to you because I had to come to London on other business. They deserve to be paid and, if you will excuse me, they were a bloody sight kinder to Lord Arthur, it seems to me, than his friends in London or his family. I tell you what, Mr Ouvry, I’m lodging with a very kind family in London so I know kindness can be found in cities also, but not everywhere. And I miss the real sea so much I can hardly bear to spend another day here. I like to fall asleep to the sound of the sea coming and going, not carriages and carts and cabs and shouting and your filthy river. But I’m here, and because I’m here I’ve come on behalf of the people I know.’

And then Mackie simply stopped speaking. He had said what he had come to say; he had no more to say to this man about the death of Lord Arthur; that was not his mission; he now sat silent, and waited. He saw Mr Ouvry on the other side of the desk thinking, and he did not interrupt him. He smelled tobacco wafting from somewhere and yearned to light his own pipe but did not; somewhere outside the room there was the sound of men’s voices, talking together.

‘Are there vouchers or receipts of some kind?’

‘Some of the services were not – receiptable, Mr Ouvry. But I made a list.’

Mackie pulled a paper from his pocket, which he passed across the desk and which Mr Ouvry perused.

‘Everything can be sent safe to Johnny Hewlettson.’

‘Is there money owing to you, Mr Mackie?’

‘No, Mr Ouvry.’

‘Nothing in it for you?’ But it did not sound offensive somehow, merely an enquiry.

‘No, Mr Ouvry. Anything in it for you?’

Mr Ouvry actually laughed, and for a moment each man looked in some measure of appreciation at the other and understood they were both doing other people’s business in a situation that was, to say the least, somewhat delicate. Then Mr Ouvry shook his head in a kind of exasperation that for a moment he did not even trouble to hide.

‘I will do my very best, Mr Mackie, to deal with this matter and I am, myself, very grateful for things that – I know were done in Mudeford.’

He did not, being the most reliable and discreet of lawyers, say that he knew there was a possibility that Lord Arthur had killed himself; he did not say it was like wrestling with sand, trying to persuade the family of the present young Duke of Newcastle to pay for anything other than their own pleasure. Mackie did not say that he now knew the Prime Minister of England was a trustee of the Newcastle Estate and therefore probably had some influence in this financial matter.

‘Two young people, you say,’ said Mr Ouvry.

‘They came briefly and spoke to Lord Arthur. Weren’t there long.’

‘Not newspaper people?’

‘We wouldn’t have let newspaper people into Mudeford, Mr Ouvry.’

Silence.

At last Frederick Ouvry, Esquire, lawyer to the nobility, stood up to end the interview. Mackie stood also.

‘I myself knew Lord Arthur when he was a sad little boy with no mother,’ said Mr Ouvry. ‘The late Duke of Newcastle, the father of Lord Arthur, was a man whom I admired, who suffered much misfortune.’ Mr Ouvry had put his hand into his own pocket and drawn out half a sovereign.

‘Give this to – to the egg lady, Mr Mackie.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The thought of the egg lady sleeping outside with her hens, while Lord Arthur Clinton died in her bed in Mudeford, disturbs some part of my heart with its – its incongruity and – ah, the pity of it, all of it.’

39

After he had courteously escorted his strange visitor to the door, Mr Frederick Ouvry, a very honourable man, sat alone for a long time back in his private office. He thought of Lord Arthur. He thought of the story he had been told, of the small kindnesses of strangers and an egg lady called Marguerita. It was not his business to judge his clients, but he sometimes wondered how long the Newcastle Estate would remain in existence.

He sighed as he unlocked a drawer and took out all the financial papers relating to Mr W. H. Roberts and the death of Lord Arthur Clinton, and his burial far away from the family home. Some more important bills paid – by Mr Roberts himself; some still remaining. Mr Roberts had written to Mr Ouvry several times, asking if he was able to facilitate the repayment of the money owing to himself and the remaining creditors. Mr Ouvry laid out all the bills carefully, then attached Mackie’s list: the almost pitiable sums still owing in the village of Mudeford. He added up everything. Then very slowly he picked up his quill. He knew very well that honourable men come in all guises, and he felt he had been in the presence today of an honourable man from Mudeford.

Finally he began writing to a man who received the adjective
honourable
by virtue of his position but who, Mr Ouvry believed, deserved the word also.

66 Lincoln’s Inn Fields

2 November 1870

To the Honourable Mr Gladstone

My Dear Sir,

Mr Roberts’ expenses come to £251.14.00. Many payments have been made in cash for which he has no vouchers. The rest he will vouch to me. I do not see that the matter can be carried further and he is much in want of the money.

I send a cheque in his favour in case you decide to pay him.

Believe me, my dear Sir,

Your obliged and faithful servant

Frederick Ouvry

This letter was received and considered by the recipient. There were two trustees dealing with the Newcastle Estate; the other was Lord de Tabley, another old friend of the old Duke of Newcastle.

Finally Mr Gladstone made his decision.

11 Carlton House Terrace

3 November 1870

My Dear De Tabley,

I send you a letter from Mr Ouvry with a cheque in favour of Mr Roberts, which I have signed but it is evident if this act of discretion is to be done it should have the support of our joint judgement. Mr Ouvry has not explicitly advised it though I have always gathered from him that he sees no other course. For my own part it is with a feeling approaching to disgust that I am prepared to accept this charge, which ought undoubtedly to be borne by others, at least out of regard to the memory of the dead. My motive is simply this; I ask myself the question, what would our friend have wished? We are advised that the charge is bona fide, and apparently reasonable; and we find that none of the Duke’s family will pay it. Given these circumstances I believe that he for whom we are acting would wish us to do it. Therefore I have signed to express my willingness, if not wholly without doubt, to proceed.

At the same time I suppose it to be certain that, if the act were to be challenged hereafter, a Court would have no option, and would be obliged to make us pay up with interest from our own funds.

Believe me,

Most sincerely yours

W.E.Gladstone

And so it was – although of course the matter was always kept confidential – that, as the grey, cold days of the year drew down and the case of the Men in Petticoats moved very quietly on, the cheque for the expenses incurred by one of the accused, Lord Arthur Clinton, as he had hurried in cabriolets that summer from one place to another, looking over his shoulder; the expenses he ran up at the King’s Arms Hotel, Christchurch, until they would give no further credit; the expenses incurred in Mudeford because he died there; and the expenses incurred when he was buried so far from home – so it was that this cheque was finally signed, not by Lord Arthur Clinton’s family but by the Prime Minister of Great Britain.

40

O
NE
COLD
FREEZING
Sunday everybody was there, in our house in Wakefield-street. Billy had lit the fire in the back parlour, Dodo had made cakes, Ma was simmering a lamb stew with barley. Mackie was still working on the Blackfriars to Gravesend ferry and he came in with a great big magnificent bottle of port which he presented to Ma. ‘I smuggled it,’ he said and she laughed. Me and Mackie and Elijah settled down to play cards like we often did on Sunday. Newspapers – especially
Reynolds News
– was read from, nothing these days about Men in Petticoats, hadn’t heard of them for months. Sometimes there was something about Lord Arthur Clinton, arisen from his coffin, carousing in Amsterdam or Africa. But there were other scandals now.

Just last week Ma had got Mackie and Billy to manoeuvre the little piano down the narrow stairs from Freddie and Ernest’s old room. It was a blooming hard job and they banged and swore a bit but they finally got it into the parlour, because Ma wanted Dodo to have a chance to sing again. Elijah played for her when he wasn’t walking behind hearses, and I could play, not very good but I could manage a tune. On this day, in our cosy parlour, Ma asked her: ‘Sing for us, Dodo. Sing one of the old music hall songs and make us laugh like you always did.’

And dear old Elijah with his sort of sad eyes smiled and put down his hand at the card game and went to the piano. And although Dodo’s body was so bent, her voice was still strong and she smiled as she sang.