by Theo Aronson
The Prince of Wales immediately instructed his Comptroller, Sir Dighton Probyn, a man with a splendid military record and with an even more splendid reputation for discretion, to look into the matter. ‘Go and see Munro [the Police Commissioner], go to the Treasury, see Lord Salisbury if necessary,’ he commanded.14 Somerset’s name must, at all costs, be cleared.
In his efforts to carry out his royal master’s wishes, Sir Dighton Probyn was joined by Sir Francis Knollys, the Prince of Wales’s private secretary and a man of equal tact and discretion. The loyalty of these two men, and indeed of all those who stood close to the throne, was absolute. Their chief concern was the protection and preservation of the monarchy. Beside this overriding obligation, all other considerations – even of justice – were secondary. To the ticklish question of Lord Arthur Somerset’s complicity, and to its even more ticklish sequel, these two seasoned courtiers now applied all their diplomatic skills.
The two men met Lord Arthur at the Marlborough Club on 16 October. The meeting was extremely amicable. Clearly the two royal envoys had no idea that there was any truth in the rumours. Somerset denied everything. At subsequent meetings – all on the same day – with Somerset’s solicitor, the Police Commissioner and the Assistant Director of Public Prosecutions, the two courtiers stressed the fact that the Prince of Wales was ‘in a great state’, that he ‘did not believe a word of it and wished that he could come himself to clear Lord Arthur Somerset’, and that ‘he must have something settled’.
At each of these meetings they were given bland assurances by the officials but at no stage were the rumours actually denied. ‘Of course I ought to tell you that I know nothing, but I know all about it but am telling you nothing,’ was how the Assistant Director of Public Prosecutions put it to them.15 This was backed up by a letter to Sir Francis Knollys in which the royal secretary was told that the Attorney General was unable to reveal the contents of any papers concerning the case.
Stalled by these lesser lights, Knollys approached a brighter one: the Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury. He arranged a meeting between Salisbury and Sir Dighton Probyn. The two men met at King’s Cross station on the evening of 18 October, just before the Prime Minister was due to catch the 7.30 p.m. train to his country home, Hatfield. It was here, for the first time, that Probyn heard that there were grounds for the accusations against Somerset. He was appalled. ‘The conversation principally consisted of expressions on the part of Sir Dighton Probyn of absolute disbelief in the charges,’ reported Lord Salisbury afterwards. ‘Until I saw you last night,’ admitted Probyn to the Prime Minister next morning, ‘I always thought it was a case of mistaken identity.’16
The Prime Minister was afterwards accused, on the floor of the House of Commons, of having told Probyn that a warrant for Somerset’s arrest was about to be issued and that Probyn had immediately passed the news on to Somerset, with the result that Somerset fled back to France the next day. This Lord Salisbury vehemently denied.
But there is reason to believe that at least part of the accusation is valid. Although Salisbury did not say that a warrant was due to be issued immediately, he apparently led Probyn to believe that one might be issued at some future date. There seems to have been no other reason for Somerset’s sudden decision to flee. He had been due to dine in the officers’ mess at the Hyde Park Barracks on the night of 18 October and when he did not appear, some of his fellow officers, who had heard the rumours of his complicity in the brothel case, imagined that he had taken the ‘honourable’ way out by shooting himself. But on going to his quarters, they found his room empty and his belongings gone. Somerset had bolted.
Had Probyn warned him? Lord Salisbury’s assertion that Probyn had not seen Somerset after the meeting between the Prime Minister and the Comptroller at King’s Cross – or ever again – cannot be true. In his letter to Salisbury the following day Probyn wrote, ‘I fear what you told me last night was all too true,’ which can only mean that Salisbury’s information had been confirmed: Probyn had seen Somerset and Somerset had admitted the truth.17 As Marlborough House was only a stone’s throw from the Marlborough Club, where Somerset was staying, a meeting could have been easily arranged. This is backed up by a letter to Probyn from the Prince of Wales. ‘Your interview with Somerset must have been a very painful one,’ he wrote. The Prince must have been referring to a second interview as the first one, two days before, at which Somerset had denied everything, had been very amicable.
‘I had a very kind but sad letter from the poor Duke [of Beaufort],’ continued the Prince of Wales to Probyn, ‘and I cannot say how deeply I feel for him and the Duchess. His having to break the news to her will be terrible. Since this dreadful affair names of other people who we know will have been mentioned … It is really too shocking! One a married man [the Earl of Euston] whose hospitality I have frequently accepted! If these people are in the same boat as poor Podge – are they to be allowed to go about as before – whilst he has fled the country?’18
Not until 4 November, three weeks after the flight of Lord Arthur Somerset, did the Duke of Beaufort break the news to his wife. This means that the Prince of Wales’s letter must have been referring to the final meeting between Probyn and Somerset, which must, in turn, have taken place after Probyn’s meeting with Salisbury. So it is more than likely that Somerset was tipped off by Probyn. In fact, Somerset later wrote to Probyn to ‘thank him for all that he has done’.19
One would have imagined that, with the flight of Lord Arthur Somerset, Sir Dighton Probyn would have let the matter drop. By now the Prince of Wales, accompanied by his family, including Prince Eddy, had set sail for that family wedding in Athens. But for reasons probably unsuspected by his royal master, Probyn persisted. Once again he approached the Prime Minister. ‘I write now to ask you, to implore of you if it can be managed to have the prosecution [of Lord Arthur Somerset] stopped. It can do no good to prosecute him. He has gone and will never show his face in England again. He dare never come back to this country.
‘I think it is the most hateful, loathsome story I ever heard, and the most astounding. It is too fearful, but further publicity will only make matters worse …’20
The Prime Minister answered this plea with a letter to the Prince of Wales in which he appears to have given the impression that he had responded favourably to Probyn’s appeal. The Prince wrote to say that he was ‘glad to gather … that no warrant is likely to be issued against the “unfortunate Lunatic” ’. And then, because he was a kind-hearted man, the Prince added that ‘I shall be greatly obliged by your kindly letting me know whether the man might return to England now, or at any future date, without fear of being apprehended on this awful charge. I have no idea where he has gone, or if he would ever dare show his face in England again even if he were free to do so, but I would like, if I may, to let his Family know if their Relative will at any time be at liberty to visit his native country.’21
The Prime Minister now found himself torn between his half-promise to the Prince of Wales that Somerset would not be prosecuted and the growing exasperation of Scotland Yard at the continued delay. ‘I have to press for a very early reply to this letter,’ demanded James Monro, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, on 21 October. ‘Proceedings in the case have been pending since the month of July, and I cannot but consider that it is unfair to the Metropolitan Police that the action should be, on account of this delay, exposed to the criticisms and misinterpretation to which I have called your attention …’22
But not until Somerset had been given time to resign his army commission honourably and his resignation had been gazetted on 4 November was Salisbury finally goaded into taking action. On 12 November 1889 a warrant was issued against Lord Arthur Somerset. In the warrant Somerset was specifically charged with 1) committing acts of gross indecency with other male persons, to wit, Allies, Swinscow and Thickbroom; 2) procuring Allies to commit similar acts with other male persons; and 3) conspiring with Hammond to procure the commission of
such acts contrary to the Criminal Law Amendment Act, 1885.
According to a piece of confidential information passed on by one of Somerset’s fellow officers, his acts were not as ‘gross’ as everyone imagined. Somerset did not commit sodomy but merely indulged in what was charmingly described as ‘gentle dalliance with the boys’.23
With the issuing of the warrant, Sir Dighton Probyn’s plans were foiled. But why had this loyal courtier been so anxious to have the matter swept under the carpet? Was his sole concern, as he so piously claimed, to spare the feelings of Lord Arthur Somerset’s parents? The Duke of Beaufort was no saint and, as Lord Arthur’s brother, Lord Henry Somerset, had proved, homosexuality was nothing new in the family. Was there a stronger reason for Probyn’s determination to keep the matter quiet?
Sir Dighton Probyn’s chief aim was to prevent Lord Arthur Somerset from giving evidence in open court. This was in order to scotch a sensational rumour that was going the rounds; a rumour that Prince Eddy was involved in the affair. The confidential allegation of the Prince’s complicity, previously known to only a handful of departmental heads, was by now being discussed in every club in London.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘The whole terrible affair’
The rumours of Prince Eddy’s alleged visits to the Cleveland Street brothel remained, for the moment, no more than that. English libel laws prevented the allegations from appearing in print. But the American and Continental newspapers, unshackled by any such laws, showed no restraint. They were able to give their readers full, if sometimes fanciful, accounts of what were described as ‘the West End Scandals’. In Paris La Lanterne claimed that at least une douzaine de Lords were implicated. Figaro spoke of Lord Arthur Somerset’s tendresse étrange pour les jeunes télégraphistes. Le Matin referred to London as La Sodome Moderne. But it was in the United States that the most serious charge was levelled. Under a portrait of Prince Albert Victor, one New York journal gave full coverage to the rumours about his involvement in the scandal. Why, it asked, had the Prince been despatched to India just before the Cleveland Street affair became public?
The New York Times claimed that ‘current rumor says that Prince Albert Victor will not return from India until the matter is completely over and forgotten, but there are certain stubborn moralists at work on the case who profess determination that it shall not be judicially burked, and the prospects are that the whole terrible affair will be dragged out into the light. The character of the threatened disclosures and the magnitude of personal interests involved may be gathered from the fact that a Privy Council meeting has been held to discuss the subject.’1
Whatever the truth of the other accusations, there was none in the accusation that Prince Eddy had been bundled off to India to avoid implication in the scandal. The tour – as was the way with all royal tours – had been arranged long before there was even a suggestion of scandal. On 25 September 1889, before the Prince of Wales and his entourage knew anything about Lord Arthur Somerset’s involvement, Somerset was summoned to Marlborough House to discuss with the Prince of Wales the saddlery and other equipment for Prince Eddy’s forthcoming tour. If, at that stage, the Prince of Wales had known nothing about Somerset’s guilt, then he had certainly known nothing about the Prince Eddy rumours.
On the other hand, it was very fortunate that Prince Eddy should be out of the way during the seven crucial months from late October 1889 to late May 1890. It allowed him to remain, in the eyes of the general public at least, one stage removed from the swirl of gossip and speculation.
Prince Eddy arrived in Bombay, on board the Oceana, on 9 November. He was accompanied by, among others, his equerry Captain George Holford of the 1st Life Guards and Sir Edward Bradford VC, later Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. From then on, he was subjected to all the strains, exhaustions and formalities of a full-blown royal tour. Like an automaton, he was shunted from government house to maharajah’s palace, paraded along troop-lined streets, presented with addresses of welcome, fêted at full-dress dinners, shepherded through historic sites, curtsied and bowed to at garden parties, entertained by dazzling displays of fireworks.
‘The splendour of the reception accorded by the Nizam was beyond description,’ writes Captain Holford in his meticulously detailed but sadly uninspiring journal. ‘HRH received separate visits from about five-and-twenty of the principal chiefs and natives, each coming with his attendants and staying about five minutes. This took up nearly the whole morning …’2
Much of Prince Eddy’s time was spent on those sporting activities which were such a feature of life during the British Raj. Tirelessly Holford catalogues the polo, pig-sticking, tent-pegging, elephant hunting, elephant riding, tiger stalking and the shooting of snipe and partridge. ‘Some idea of the royal scale of the Maharajah’s hospitality may be gathered from the fact that, about the shooting camp, and as beaters, no less than five thousand men were employed.’
There was one embarrassing, and potentially fatal, incident. The Prince’s uncle, Prince Arthur, Duke of Connaught, was also in India at the time (as Commander-in-Chief of the Bombay Army) and one day Prince Eddy and the Duchess of Connaught clambered into the howdah on an elephant’s back in order to visit a temple. On the way, the elephant suddenly let loose a cascade of excrement. The nervous mahout panicked and the elephant started to move back, slithering on its excrement as it did so. The howdah pitched perilously, and if the mahout had not managed to gain control of the lurching beast, it might well have bolted. The results could have been catastrophic. A ladder was rushed to the scene and the badly shaken Prince and Duchess climbed down to safety.
The Connaughts were astonished at the trunkloads of clothes which Prince Eddy had brought with him. He had an impeccably tailored outfit for every possible occasion. Whatever his other shortcomings, this future Emperor of India certainly looked the part. He spent so long dressing that he once kept the punctilious Duke of Connaught waiting for twenty minutes before they could set out on their morning ride. But just now and then one glimpses a real person within the splendidly uniformed and accoutred figure of HRH Prince Albert Victor. When he had occasion to exercise it, his languorous charm could be very winning. Far from being an autocratic and petulant princeling, he struck those whom he met as very considerate and well-mannered. The Connaughts found him quite unspoilt but very young for his age. He was slow at taking things in and seemed happiest in the company of men younger than himself.
Occasionally something seemed to catch his usually undirected attention. ‘The reader can hardly fail to realize the dark Indian night,’ wrote one observer of an outdoor evening entertainment, ‘the long lines of soft lights rising tier upon tier against the dark background of the trees, the swarthy conjurors with their weird deceits, the barbaric music, the rhythmical swaying of the Nautch girls, the tempestuous frenzy of the kuttak dance – and in the midst of it our soldier and sailor Prince, hardly past his boyhood, in the guise of an eager and animated spectator.’3
Of Prince Eddy’s intimate diversions during those sultry Indian nights one knows nothing. But one story did filter back to Britain. It concerned his encounter with a young Indian who delivered the laundry to his suite in some maharajah’s palace. Whatever the nature of this encounter, it enabled the satirical journal Truth to publish an imaginary interview with Prince Eddy about his Indian tour. Although ostensibly poking fun at the Prince’s obsession with the laundering and starching of his collar and cuffs, this innocuous-seeming piece of doggerel was rich in double meanings.
Asked what had impressed him most during his Indian tour, Prince Eddy’s reply is, ‘The man I came across at Shuttadore.’ Had this man, asks his interviewer, been a rajah or a pundit or a fakir?
No, no, it was not one of these
Who won my heart at Shuttadore!
No, ’twas a low-caste laundry-man …
And this is what impressed me most
Whilst Hindustan I travelled o’er –
The skill d
isplayed by Chundra Dass
The laundry-man of Shuttadore!4
Until the warrant was issued for the arrest of Lord Arthur Somerset on 12 November 1889, the British public knew very little about the aristocratic involvement in the Cleveland Street case. The trial of the two procurers, the post office employee Henry Newlove and the self-styled Reverend G.D. Veck, had been a rushed, poorly reported affair with no mention made of their upper-class clientele. The fact that Lord Arthur Somerset had fled to France several weeks before the warrant meant that his complicity was known only in certain government and society circles. There had been one or two small, vaguely worded news items but they had been comprehensible only to those in the know.
But on 16 November 1889 all this changed. Under the headline ‘The West End Scandals’, an obscure Radical journal called the North London Press published a news item about the homosexual brothel case in which the names of the two leading aristocrats were mentioned: one was Lord Arthur Somerset, the other the Earl of Euston, eldest son of the Duke of Grafton. Both men, it reported, had fled the country: Somerset to France and Euston to Peru. The two men had ‘been allowed to leave the country, and thus defeat the ends of justice,’ the report went on to say, ‘because their prosecution would disclose the fact that a far more distinguished and highly placed personage than themselves was inculpated in these disgusting crimes’.5 That highly placed personage was, of course, Prince Eddy.
The North London Press, with a circulation of between four and five thousand, had been in existence for a few months only. It was edited by a twenty-nine-year-old journalist named Ernest Parke. Lithe, energetic, dedicated to his calling, Parke has been described as ‘a singular mixture of shrewdness and ideals; an intense Radical, and at the same time a thoroughly practical journalist’.6 Driven by his passion for a good story and his determination to attack aristocratic privilege, Parke had decided to probe the Cleveland Street affair. He suspected some sort of official conspiracy. Why else should Veck and Newlove have been given such light sentences, and why should Somerset and – as he thought – Euston, have been allowed to escape justice? In his suspicions Parke was joined by those two other great crusading journalists of the period: Henry Labouchere, the member of Parliament who edited Truth, and W.T. Stead, the editor of the Pall Mall Gazette.
