Fletcher's Glorious 1st of June

by John Drake

  “I can explain everything with two words,” she said. “There was a name missing from the list.”

  “Yes?” he said, expectantly.

  “Shall I tell it you?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Are you listening, my dear?”

  “Yes.”

  “The name of my remaining enemy is … Victor Coignwood.”

  *

  Even Sam Slym was shocked at the fearful shrieks that burst from the sick room. Even his toughened hide shuddered at the sight of the foaming, spitting, clawing lunatic tearing at his mother’s face and howling like a damned soul. The two simple Staffordshiremen who were with him never shook off the horror of it as long as they lived and would never talk of it, except when safely drunk and late at night, supported by a company of stout men and the comfort of a good fire.

  Slym led the rush and dragged Victor off Lady Sarah. Her cheek was scratched and her hair torn, but she’d taken no real harm. He got her out, seemingly limp and fainting, but she hissed fiercely into his ear.

  “Get back in there! I want him dive!”

  He was not a second too soon. They had Victor on the floor and Plowright was throttling him while the porter laid in with his heavy boots.

  “You soddin’ bastard!” cried Plowright, over and over again. Slym hauled him off and threw Victor back on to his bed. He peered at him carefully, felt for a heartbeat, and turned and nodded at Lady Sarah, standing in the doorway. Only Sam Slym saw the satisfied little smile for a job well done. He shuddered again.

  28

  Lo! Sweet Venus comes to trial,

  And England fawns upon her.

  For those that said they’d tell her sins,

  Give witness to her honour!

  The Sorceress weeps a sparkling tear,

  And weaves her spell as Circe.

  The Jury are become her hogs,

  To grunt and snort for mercy!

  Thus jury, Judge and Lawyers too,

  Have made THE LAW a farce.

  And raced like runners for the prize,

  To kiss La C*******d’s a**e!

  (Scurrilous verse beneath a Gillray cartoon depicting Lady Sarah Coignwood’s trial, entitled, “The tri(UMPH)al of Venus”. First published by H. Humphrey of St James’s as a coloured print on 14th May 1794, it was an enormous success, with many subsequent editions and pirate copies.)

  *

  From 10th May to 13 May 1794, there was one topic of conversation alone, among all classes of society in London. Similarly, all matters of the war with the French, of Parliamentary debate, or of any other kind whatsoever, were driven from their former places of prominence in the London newspapers, to make way for the ONE GREAT EVENT of Lady Sarah Coignwood’s trial, on a charge of murder, at the Old Bailey.

  Lady Sarah was already well known to the elegant world as the outstanding beauty of the day. She was a leader of fashion and kept the most glittering and spectacular salon in London. Her house in Dulwich Square was one of the hubs around which society revolved.

  Or at least these things were almost true. There had always been a powerful undercurrent of rumour about the Coignwoods: Lady Sarah and her sons Alexander and Victor.

  Even the rake-hell society of London in the 1790s had its limits and the solid rock of respectability had always groaned and rumbled beneath the Coignwoods, like the slopes of a volcano that slept uneasily.

  Thus the family. Now the lady herself. All superlatives failed where Lady Sarah Coignwood was concerned. Charles James Fox, the great Whig statesman and reputedly one of her many lovers, said of her:

  “No man who gets into the same room with her can bear to let her out, and no man’s wife who gets her out of the room can bear to let her back in.” In another version of that famous quotation, the word “bed” takes the place of “room”.

  But as with her sons, particularly Alexander, there was the scent of a carefully hidden corruption. Men, and women too, were blinded by her beauty when in her presence, and could think no ill of her. But they weren’t complete fools and when one prurient story piled upon another, they began to wonder.

  So when, in early August of 1793, the world learned of Lady Sarah’s disappearance, together with Victor, fleeing a charge of murder, and the mysterious disappearance of Jacob Fletcher, Sir Henry’s illegitimate heir, the world nodded its head, smirked wisely at itself, and said that it always knew Lady Sarah would come to no good. And when in October ‘93 Lady Sarah gave herself up in charge of Mr Hector Gardiner, Magistrate of Lonborough in Staffordshire, the sensation produced by this news was greater than anything since the fall of Quebec to the British in 1759.

  So intense was the interest in the case that powerful influences were brought to bear to ensure that Lady Sarah’s trial should take place not in Staffordshire, but in London, so that the spectacle could be enjoyed by the Great and the Good of the Land, without the horrors of having to toil north into the unknown wastes beyond civilisation.

  The Prince of Wales himself was undoubtedly involved in this despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that Lady Sarah had once snubbed him cruelly at the end of a brief liaison they had shared. But some things are beyond the influence even of princes. The law of England would not be hurried, and it was not until seven months later that London society got its treat and the case came to trial at the Old Bailey, before the Master of the Rolls, Lord Lairing. In the meantime, Lady Sarah was supposedly held in Newgate Prison, though in reality, and for the usual “fees” to her gaolers, she was allowed to live in Dulwich Square, provided she presented herself each Monday morning at Newgate to prove that she had not fled.

  It was obvious at this time that Lady Sarah was awash with credit. Fletcher, the supposed heir to the Coignwood fortune, was still missing, and legal opinions were swinging behind Lady Sarah as rightful heir to her husband’s bottomless moneybags.

  Consequently, Dulwich Square became a centre of pilgrimage for not only the fashionable, but the nosy, the curious and the mob. In the week before the trial the disturbances outside Lady Sarah’s house grew so great that troops were called out to seal off the Square. London duly noted that the regiment entrusted with this duty was the 10th Hussars: “The Prince of Wales’s Own”.

  Finally on the morning of 10th May 1794, the longed-for entertainment commenced. Twelve jurymen, solid, respectable tradesmen to a man, sat shoulder to shoulder in three neat tiers of banked wooden pews, with a closed gate shutting them in. Immediately in front of them was a sort of orchestra pit in which important witnesses would be stored and kept waiting the pleasure of the court. Beyond that, on a raised bench of their own, were representatives of the newspapers, given the privilege in a free England to report the proceedings.

  To the left of the jury, uprose the dock itself, the focus of every man and woman’s gaze. Still empty, as yet, of the lovely creature that all had come to see.

  Immediately above and behind the jury box, there rose a high wooden screen, like a giant, turned-up coat collar. This effectively blocked off the jury from the public gallery above, where a choice selection of England’s ruling class was on display.

  To the right of the jury box was a huge half-moon shaped table with a green baize cloth and several dozen lawyers, black-robed and white-wigged. Among them were Sir Anthony Beaufort who appeared for the Crown, and Sir Patrick Joyce the brilliant, witty Irishman — one of the finest advocates in the kingdom — who appeared for the defence. These two at least had work to do, but most of the others were shuffling papers and trying to look important, for far more of them had claimed the privilege of attending than necessity really demanded.

  Further right, fitting snugly against the round side of the table, arose the high panelling of the bench, behind which, and at a commanding height, Lord Lairing would survey the court. Above his seat, there was mounted upon the wall a great sword of justice surmounted by the crown which represented the King’s Majesty.

  At half-past nine there came a sudden buzz of
expectation, a simultaneous falling silent of the hundreds crammed into the court room, then a communal gasp of wonder. Between two officers of the court, Lady Sarah was ascending into the dock.

  She wore a flowing gown of soft shimmering lilac silk with a full skirt, long tight sleeves, and a sash tied in a huge bow at the back to nip it in at the waist. Her long hair tumbled in a cascade of curls from under an enormous hat decorated with voluminous ribbons to match those at her throat. She was breathtakingly lovely, and left every other woman in London trailing in her wake.

  She glanced briefly around the court room, nodded graciously to her champion, Sir Patrick, and sat straight-backed on the chair they gave her, with her head high and her hands folded in her lap. She looked sweet and natural, and those who knew her sighed in admiration and muttered to one another that a change had come over her. Usually, she lounged with the languid fluidity of a lazy cat. Only Lady Sarah knew that her bearing was consciously modelled on that of Miss Kate Booth, still chained in her attic room in Greenwich. Lady Sarah was ready to learn from anyone; all that mattered was winning.

  Compared with Lady Sarah’s entry, the arrival of Lord Lairing to the stentorian bellowing of a court usher was an anticlimax, but all stood while he heaved his bulk into the Judge’s chair and his active, busy eyes, half-hidden in folds of flesh, swept around the court. His Lordship was vastly fat and his red face and wheezing breath advertised the impoverished state of his health. But the swollen body housed a quick, penetrating brain and he alone of all the men in court that day smiled in amusement at Lady Sarah’s affectation of girlish innocence, rather than being stirred and aroused by it.

  With all the players assembled, the game began. There was an hour or so of formality as the jury were sworn in, the lovely accused duly pleaded “Not Guilty” and still more bodies managed to squeeze themselves into the court room. Later, Sir Anthony addressed the court to list the divers murders and deadly assaults of which Lady Sarah and her son Victor stood accused. This amounted to the following:

  1. The murder of Arnold Burroughs, Coachman to the late Mr Cecil Forster, Magistrate, of Lonborough.

  2. The murder of Richard Lucey, Solicitor, of Lonborough.

  3. Assault with grievous bodily harm upon the person of Mr Adam Plowright, Parish Constable, of Lonborough.

  4. Assault with grievous bodily harm upon the person of Mr Edward Lucey, Solicitor, of Lonborough.

  Of this total, charges (2) and (4) were rapidly struck out as far as Lady Sarah was concerned. Mr John Taylor, bookseller of 38 Market Street, Lonborough, was called by the Prosecution and told the court in a clear and angry voice how he and his wife had seen Victor Coignwood emerge from No. 39 Market Street, opposite his own house, on the night of 19th July 1793, with a sword in his hand, before running off up the street. No. 39 immediately took fire and the wounded Mr Edward Lucey emerged, dragging the body of his father.

  “Thank you, Mr Taylor,” said Sir Anthony. “My Lord,” said he, “I now produce affidavits from Mr Edward Lucey, attesting to the fact that the deadly attack upon himself and his father was carried out by Mr Victor Coignwood.”

  “Sir Anthony,” said Lord Lairing, “is Mr Edward Lucey not in court?”

  “No, my Lord,” said Beaufort, “he is ill and unable to travel. I have certificates from two physicians …”

  “No doubt,” said Lairing dismissively, “but you have not yet advanced evidence of the involvement of the accused in the assaults upon either Mr Lucey. Do you not propose to do so?”

  “No, my Lord,” said Beaufort, “but I hope to show …”

  “Sir Anthony,” said Lairing, “you have shown that Mr Victor Coignwood committed these assaults, have you not?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “The same Mr Victor Coignwood now confined in a straight waistcoat, insane and unable to plead, in the Charity Hospital, Lonborough?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Then what have the assaults upon the Luceys to do with the accused?”

  “It is my contention, my Lord, that Mr Victor Coignwood committed these crimes under her influence.”

  “Have you evidence of this?”

  “The totality of my case permits of no other interpretation, my Lord.”

  “I repeat, Sir Anthony, have you evidence of this?”

  Sir Anthony was stopped in his tracks. Whispers flew round the court and there was a brief silence.

  “In that case, Sir Anthony, I will ask you to confine yourself to those charges for which you are able to present evidence of the involvement of the accused!”

  Sir Patrick Joyce smirked, and turned to smile at Lady Sarah. She nodded to acknowledge him and returned to the serious business of staring in adoration at Lord Lairing.

  Sir Anthony was rattled, but shifted quickly to the events of 30th July 1793 when Mr Magistrate Forster had led a party of men to arrest Lady Sarah and her son at Coignwood Hall. Of this company, Forster’s coachman had been shot dead, and Forster himself had later died in his hunting accident.

  But five witnesses remained alive: Mr Nathan Pendennis, Lord Mayor of Polmouth; Mr Adam Plowright, lately Parish Constable of Lonborough, and his two brothers who went with Forster’s party on that fell occasion.

  So much time had gone on the earlier formalities and on Mr Taylor’s testimony that no further business was conducted in court that day.

  On the 11th, the court reassembled. Lady Sarah wore an entirely different and still more &Ming outfit. Actual fights broke out among those queuing to gain entry to the public gallery and places were sold for huge sums of money.

  Excitement was intense as Mr Pendennis took his place before the bench, to give his evidence. The jury stirred with anticipation, and readied themselves to give most especial weight to a man who was the very embodiment of all that any tradesman could aspire to in his bearing or his unquestionable honesty. True, Mr Pendennis was nervous and sweating, but the court was hot with the press of bodies and who would not be nervous in such a position?

  Sir Anthony led Pendennis through the events preceding the arrival of Mr Forster’s party at Coignwood Hall. He led Pen-dennis to the central point of his case and approached the question that would put a rope around Lady Sarah’s adorable neck.

  “And how were Lady Sarah and her son situated at that moment?” said Sir Anthony.

  “Side by side, my Lord,” said Pendennis, looking up at Lairing.

  “And how were they armed?”

  “Victor Coignwood had a double pistol in either hand, and more in his belt.”

  “And Lady Sarah?” asked Sir Anthony, with a frown. “How was she armed?”

  “She was not armed,” said Pendennis, sweating furiously. “Not armed?” said Sir Anthony, surprised.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “I remind you, sir, that you are on oath and must answer truly on peril of your immortal soul! Now, sir, was Lady Sarah armed?”

  “No, my Lord,” said Pendennis looking straight at Lord Lairing.

  “Then what did Lady Sarah say to her son?” asked Sir Anthony. “What did she say when he threatened Mr Forster’s company with his pistols?”

  “Nothing, my Lord,” said Pendennis.

  “What?” said Sir Anthony, searching through his notes. “Did she not say — ‘Show them, pick any one you wish’? And later did she not warn her son not to kill the Magistrate because it would provoke the wrath of the Law but to kill any other that he chose? And …”

  “Sir Anthony,” intervened Lord Lairing, “do you entertain hopes of further advancement in your profession?”

  “Ah, er, yes, my Lord.”

  “Then why are you attempting to lead your witness in this naive fashion?”

  Sir Anthony begged the court’s pardon and turned upon Pen-dennis with all his considerable skill.

  But Pendennis could not be shaken and Sir Patrick declined even to question the witness when given the opportunity. So far Sir P
atrick had earned his huge fee by doing next to nothing.

  Next the prosecution put up the three Plowright brothers. Of these Adam Plowright, with his wooden leg, token of the mutilation infficted upon him by Victor Coignwood, was by far the most impressive, though his evidence was long and rambling. It was soon clear that he was deep under the spell of Lady Sarah and was filled with a poisonous loathing of her son. He had constantly to be stopped from wandering off the point into a tirade of hatred against Victor Coignwood, accompanied by protestations of the lady’s virtue and the cruel burden she bore in having such unnatural children.

  These excursions drew a chorus of “Shame!” and “Infamy!” from the public gallery when they touched upon Victor Coign-wood, and cries of “Here, here!” when they concerned La Belle Coignwood’s motherly gentleness. Still more ominous for the prosecution’s case were the sympathetic growls that arose from the jury box whenever Lady Sarah was named.

  “Unfortunate lady!” said the foreman of the jury, more than once. Eventually the foreman was reprimanded for this by his Lordship, though those familiar with Lairing’s career had known him give far more savage warnings for far less serious misbehaviour.

  Overall, and in so far as a clear testimony could be got out of him, Adam Plowright denied that Lady Sarah had any responsibility for the crimes of the night of the 30th July, and blamed her son comprehensively.

  When his brothers stood up, one after the other, the first real shadow of evidence seemed to appear against Lady Sarah. In varying degrees they appeared to agree that she had said the words that Sir Anthony had so utterly failed to draw forth from Nathan Pendennis. This gave Sir Patrick his first real exercise of his two days in court. He picked on the inconsistencies between the accounts given by the three brothers and so completely made fools of them that the court rocked with laughter and the jurymen shook their heads in contempt of these Staffordshire clods with their uncouth accents and thick boots.

  There then followed a long and complicated series of efforts by Sir Anthony to bring forward witnesses to Lady Sarah’s allegedly scandalous and depraved character. He had in fact made terrific efforts to delve into some of her more interesting pastimes and the list of allegations, and the persons whom he had waiting to be summoned, some of them trembling in fear, would have made a very interesting pamphlet for public titivation.