Breaths of Suspicion (16 page)

Like or not, he wouldn’t have been able to stop me, if things had worked out as they were intended to. In the new Government the Lord Chancellor was old; Bethell was Attorney General and Sir Henry Keating was, by all accounts, an incompetent nonentity as Solicitor General. I was assured by those in the know that it would be a matter of months only before I obtained preferment—and the consequent knighthood.

You are still grimacing, young man. You pull a face. Unconvinced, hey? Ah, I understand. It’s about the expense.…

Yes, I
had
laid out a great deal of money, but I had earned much. I agree, I agree, it could not be enough to bear such expenses, the necessary outgoings for two elections in the space of a few months.
And you’re aware I was always somewhat embarrassed financially during the course of my legal career. So you wonder how did I raise the money?

I’m not certain how far I can travel this road, to explain to you. It’s a matter of some delicacy and … well, although it’s all a long time ago now, twenty years and more, and although men have passed on … I still feel a little uncertain whether I should tell the story to you.

Ha! I see that now your appetite is really whetted. I’m trapped by my own words. Very well, I suppose after this lapse of time, and in my present circumstances in this near-hovel I inhabit now, it will do no harm to tell you.

It harks back, in a sense, to that meeting in the Abbey Hotel, near Nottingham, on the day my enemy, Lord George Bentinck, died. You will recall that I mentioned to you that among the group called to meet by that rogue, Lewis Goodman, there had been a wealthy banker, a sitting Member of Parliament. His name was John Sadleir. I had not made his acquaintance before that day, but later I came across him from time to time in the Reform Club, for he sat on the Government benches under Lord Aberdeen—Prime Ministers came and went with regularity in those turbulent years. Aberdeen appointed him as a Junior Lord of the Treasury, just a short step from high office.

I knew of him, of course, and of his wealthy reputation: he was said to be fond of drink and ballads, a man occasionally disabled by melancholy like many Irishmen, a one-time notorious faction fighter at the fairs in Kerry and Cork and a sportsman who fancied himself at the sports of football and hurling. But even at the club I met him rarely, and certainly he was not an intimate of mine, so I was surprised when one evening he sent me a note, asked me if I would dine with him. He had hired a private room and the wines served were of excellent quality: as the most successful banker of his day, he was reckoned to be one of the richest, and most
personable businessmen in London.

It was only after we had talked politics, eaten a good dinner and were enjoying a brandy and cigar each that I said to him, ‘I have the feeling that you have some specific reason for inviting me to dine this evening.’

He smiled. I can see him still, in my mind’s eye, a confident, burly, broad-shouldered Irishman, the smoke from his cigar curling softly about his greying, bushy hair, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watched me and I noted the hint of cynicism in his smile.

‘I’ve followed your career with interest, Mr James.’

‘Indeed?’

He nodded. ‘And I have come to the conclusion that you are an able, courageous man in the courtroom.’

I inclined my head in modest acknowledgment.

‘I’ve also concluded you’re a man of few scruples,’ he added coolly.

I glared at him, feeling anger rising in my chest at the studied insult. But before I could rise, speak in protest, he leaned forward, holding my glance under a fierce knitting of his brows.

‘And you are the man I know I can turn to.’

‘Turn to? You are in legal difficulties?’ My hackles were up in indignation. ‘If you have a legal problem you should talk to your attorneys, discuss it with them, suggest they send instructions to my clerk—’

‘No, no!’ He waved aside my protest with a dismissive hand. ‘This is not something to be discussed with attorneys, or your clerk. It is a private matter. A matter requiring the utmost discretion.’

I waited, not understanding, but vaguely disturbed and, I must admit, strangely on edge.

‘So what is it you require of me?’ I asked warily.

‘In short, James, a certain personal service,’ Sadleir said, pausing, and taking a short, suddenly nervous pull at his cigar, ‘I
want you to assist …’

The end of his cigar glowed red.

‘… I want you to assist me in the matter of my death.’

C
hance plays such an important part in men’s lives.

Take Carlo Rudio, for instance. You might recall he was one of the bomb-throwers in Paris, the third one to launch his grenade at the Emperor’s coach. A great survivor. I first met him, you might be interested to know, in Italy when he was a follower of Garibaldi. And then again, years later in New York when we were together involved in the hunt for President Lincoln’s assassin. But I’ll tell you about that some other time. Rudio was a remarkable man, a great escapologist. He avoided the death sentence in Paris by blabbing the assassination plot—which resulted in the capture of Orsini and Gomez. He was consequently sent not to the guillotine but to Devil’s Island: he was one of the very few who contrived to escape from that hell and he came to live in East London for a while before he emigrated to America. In New York he enlisted in the regular Army, under the name Charles de Rudio and fought in the Civil War. Later, he served as a lieutenant in the Indian wars, with the famous 7th Cavalry under General Custer—and escaped again. He was present at the Little Big Horn, in Benteen’s command, and was one of the few to survive the massacre.

Then there’s your father. Chance meant that while I knew him in England Rudio knew him in New York, where they were both servicing whores and drilling volunteers in the Civil War.
You know, I saw him recently, your father, that is. It was on the Strand. You don’t know a great deal about him, do you? I suppose it’s understandable because he was always a committed travelling man—he went to India when he was just nineteen, where he married his first wife, Jane. She’s a famous artist now, in Australia, and so is her son, your half-brother. You didn’t know that? Jane Stocqueler left your father because she saw little of him after he impregnated her. In the first two years of their marriage he was off for fifteen months travelling in Afghanistan, and she scarcely saw him after that. So she took her son off to Australia. Your own mother, my wife Eliza, she married Stocqueler when she was eighteen—he was forty-seven at the time. He was always partial to young women … unlike me, for I’ve always preferred older, more mature ladies: less inane chatter, an understanding of the mechanics of sex and a greater likelihood of gratitude. In fact, I hear your father’s just got married again, at the age of sixty-seven. His new wife is thirty, I hear.…

But chance meant that your mother Eliza and I would meet; our paths first crossed when she and your father were operating a diorama about the Crimean War in London. A chance meeting … and then when Eliza and I met again, in New York, chance dictated that she and I were in similar straits: she divorced from your father, who was running around with various ladies and a troop of volunteer horse alongside Rudio; me in the wreckage of my marriage to Marianne Hilliard.

No, no, I’m not prevaricating, don’t take me to task with that long face! I’m not really wandering from the point. I
said
I’d tell you about Sadleir, it’s just that I’m emphasizing the part chance plays in all our lives.

You see, if Sadleir hadn’t glimpsed me at that meeting at the Abbey Inn on the day Lord Bentinck died he wouldn’t have formed the swift impression of my character that influenced his decision later. Yes, he might have seen me as a fellow scoundrel from later
events but, well, first impressions are important, aren’t they?

If only I had ignored Lewis Goodman’s summons that day, how different things might have been! It could have been.…

What? All right, all right, I’ll press on.

That evening in the Reform Club after I’d got over the shock of Sadleir’s statement about his desire to die he leaned back comfortably in his chair, watching me with an amused glint in his eyes, and asked, ‘What do you know about me, James?’

I took a deep breath, still recovering from the astounding nature of his seemingly casually stated request. ‘You’re known to be fabulously wealthy.’

He grimaced. ‘Go on.’

‘You’re from Dublin, where you practised as a solicitor—’

‘I started in Tipperary, actually, where my father owned a small bank. Moved to Dublin later, before I came to London in 1847. Got elected as member for an Irish seat. What else?’

Carefully, I said, ‘You’re popular, said to be witty; you’re known as a ladies’ man and a good dancer.’

‘Better than any man of my acquaintance!’ he boasted with a laugh. ‘Go on! I’m enjoying this!’

‘The rest is in the public domain: you’re MP for Sligo, Chairman and Director of the London and County Bank—’

‘Among others,’ he interrupted.

‘—and you were a Junior Lord of the Treasury under Lord Aberdeen.’ I shrugged. ‘You’re still an MP. That’s about it.’

Sadleir was silent for a little while, contemplating the glowing end of his cigar. At last he looked up at me. ‘Since that first brief meeting that time near Welbeck I’ve watched your career with interest, James. You and I have much in common. You have a similar reputation to mine: you’re seen as a witty, popular, successful man. We both enjoy the trappings of success—you live in Berkeley Square now, I believe, while I reside in a mansion in Gloucester Square. We’re the darlings of society—we are the recipients of
more country house invitations than we can acknowledge. And we have a hunger to rise in life—your father was a humble solicitor, as was mine, but we both are driven by ambition. And there is one other thing we have in common.’

I waited. After a little while, as Sadleir seemed lost in thought, I asked, ‘And what other thing do you suggest we have in common?’

He bared his teeth in a mirthless smile. His hand was shaking slightly, and ash fell from the end of his cigar onto the damask cloth on the table. He did not respond to my question immediately. ‘We are both
ruthless
in the pursuit of our ambitions.’

I made no demur: it was for him to say what he knew.

‘Let me tell you my story,’ he said. He stubbed out the cigar and finished the brandy in his glass.

‘People are stupid,’ he announced. ‘They see what they want to see. You know that. I’ve seen that recognition in your own career. And you’ve relied upon it—the stupidity of juries, in particular, but also, I hear, of gullible, wealthy ladies and infatuated young men—relied upon it to advance your career. In my case, when I came to London I was armed with the agency of two small banks and was seen at first merely as an Irish adventurer, but as a Member of Parliament—for Carlow in the first instance—I was quickly able to make use of the political and social connections I made and within twelve months, my charm, wit and reputation as a financier gave me entry to a society that included Gladstone, Disraeli, Aberdeen and Sir Robert Peel.’ He smiled. ‘You knew his brother, I believe.’

I grimaced. ‘Colonel Peel? Yes, the
Running Rein
case. People never seem to forget that debacle.’

‘The famous Derby fraud. In which our mutual acquaintance, Lewis Goodman, was deeply involved.’

A slow stain of suspicion was beginning to grow in my mind. A suspicion that made me believe that there was indeed much in common between John Sadleir and myself.

He poured himself another brandy, offered me the decanter,
which I accepted.

‘As a Parliamentary agent for the Irish banks I made a great deal of tin in those early years,’ he explained. ‘It enabled me to indulge in speculation, particularly during the railway boom. And believe me, there was a great deal of competition for business in the early days of joint stock banking—all the banks wanted the patronage of the State and there I was, ideally placed, a banker and seated on the Government benches. The financiers, greedy to the very last one of them, sought me out, called for my patronage, and offered me money, money, money.…’

Carefully, I murmured, ‘You’ve also built up a reputation as a man of a philanthropic nature.’

‘And a good employer. You know, I paid my secretary two thousand a year—mind you, the rogue trebled his income by charging a hundred guineas for each introduction to his master. You can’t trust anyone, can you?’ He gave a short, barking laugh and sipped at his brandy. ‘Yes, I supported many charities, was known to be open-handed for good causes, for was I not reputed to be one of the richest men in London?’

‘Rich enough, I heard, to buy thousands of acres in Ireland,’ I ventured.

‘Indeed.’ There was an odd, cynical gleam in his eyes. ‘And as a result the Irish farming fraternity clamoured to deposit their money in the Tipperary Bank, once I announced my objective was to buy back large estates for the numerous small tenants. They rushed to invest! Philanthropy, you see! Irresistible! Then there was the publicity, the jostling of journalists seeking an interview: they loved me. As did other writers. Dickens and Thackeray visited the Reform Club once, you know, just to get a glimpse of me, and they sat there smoking and discussing my fabulous wealth. A number of novels—especially Disraeli’s—contained thinly veiled portraits of the Honourable Member for Sligo!’

‘I’ve heard you talked about in the Reform Club,’ I said quietly
slightly irritated by his boasting.

‘As I have you. But it’s all smoke and mirrors, ain’t it, my learned friend?’

There was a short silence between us as each weighed up the other. At last, in a tight voice, rather strangled voice, I demanded, ‘Just what do you mean by that remark?’

He smiled, waved his brandy glass in my general direction.

‘Oh, relax, James! You and I both know that wordsmiths like you and me, we can charm birds from trees, money from infatuated women and support from politicians who believe we are men of principle. They don’t see what we are in reality. No, before you protest, let me tell you what happened to me. I made use of the contacts I forged in the House and in social circles, everyone believed what they wanted to believe and so much money was pressed upon me that I was able to embark, first of all, on a series of unwise speculations and then, later, a whole range of financial swindles. To the world I was a financial genius; it was thought I was so rich my resources would never be exhausted. But the reality? I never once had the luxury of being really solvent. When I needed money I simply drew it from the Tipperary Bank. From the deposits made by small farmers. Not to invest; just to spend, to maintain the image. And no questions were asked! So by the time I took up the position of Junior Lord of the Treasury I was already deeply in debt. I had issued bogus railway stock; I had mortgaged the Irish landholdings; I had forged land certificates to secure many of my loans, but I was
gambling
, gambling that as a Minister of the Crown I would obtain privileged information that would enable me to recoup my losses by successful Stock Exchange speculation.’

He paused, heaved a theatrical sigh. ‘Unfortunately, there were men in the Treasury who were not blinded by my aura of financial invincibility: they began private inquiries and made a report to Lord Aberdeen. He called me in a little while ago. Told me if I did
not resign the Treasury, he would publicly remove me.’

This confession had gone far enough to make me nervous. I held up a hand. ‘Sadleir, I don’t know why you are telling me all this. You must be mad! I could report you to—’

‘Not at all, my learned friend. I speak freely because this conversation is subject to legal privilege. You cannot disclose it without my permission.’

‘That’s nonsense! You’re not my client! There’s no legal privilege involved!’

Sadleir had the impudence to grin at me. ‘Who would believe that, if I claimed that the information I have given you was on a client–legal adviser basis? My dear James, from what I hear you’re in enough trouble with the Benchers of the Inner Temple as it is! A dispute about whether you’re my counsel or not? I’m sure your enemies would be delighted to have another stick to beat you with.’

I stood up, pushing back my chair. ‘That’s enough! I’ll listen to no more of this. I give you my assurance that I won’t repeat the conversation but—’

‘Please sit down, my friend. Hear me out.’ There was a sudden, steely edge to his voice.

‘To what purpose?’ I spat at him. ‘This conversation is dangerous—it’s already gone further than it should.’

‘To what purpose, you ask?’ He took out another cigar, lit it, puffed contentedly and sent out a spiral of smoke into the air. ‘Purpose? Why, the furtherance of your ambition.’

I stood rooted to the spot, staring down at him. He leaned forward, refilled my glass from the decanter and gestured towards the seat I had just vacated. ‘Sit down, James. Be sensible. Accept that I’ve recognized in you some of the desires that have burned in me.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve admitted to me you’re a fraud and a thief! To compare us—’

‘
Sit down
,’ he insisted coldly. ‘Don’t ride the high horse so
indignantly! It doesn’t become you. My life has been one of pursuit of money, women—and high office. How are you so different? I
know
you, James. While I once hoped to become Chancellor of the Exchequer—imagine what that would have meant for me—I’ve no doubt you look forward and dream of the day you’ll become Lord Chancellor. For me, the Exchequer is lost. For you … all is still possible. Except—and it’s a big exception—
you can’t afford to pay the
price
.’ His glowing eyes were fixed on mine. ‘But perhaps we can do something about that.’

My heart was thudding in my chest. I knew it was foolish of me to remain there, but in spite of logic, I resumed my seat, reached for the brandy glass, downed the burning liquid, searing the back of my throat.

‘To reach the heights of your ambition, my learned friend, you need to obtain a seat in Parliament. You have friends and supporters, and the Liberal Party to back you but … you lack the cash that would put you in the House. Don’t talk to me of your earnings! I know of the liabilities under which you labour! I know of your indebtedness to Lewis Goodman and the way in which your paper floats about among half the moneylenders in London! I know of your extravagance, your social climbing. I tell you, man, I
know
you, I
recognize
you, and I appreciate your problems! Because we are brothers under the skin!’ He paused, almost glaring at me. ‘But even though my own cause is lost, I can help
you
make the final push. I can finance you. I can help you attain your greatest ambitions!’