“Double-checked, my lord. Their names have been listed and each has been given a written warrant to that effect.”
“Excellent! Both of your clerks are here, are they not?”
“They are indeed, my lord, and both ready to take the names and particulars of the villains so that they may be properly prosecuted. I much suspect that there will be one or two to hang and probably every other to be transported, my lord. There will be no errors in the paperwork and due processes of the law. Ah… might I enquire, my lord, of the provenance of our special constables?”
“I thought it better not to use local men, for the strain it might put on their loyalties, Mr Hamworthy. My London lawyer, a Mr Michael, a man of remarkable abilities and the second of the name to serve our families, was able to recruit Mr Smith, who is ganger to a number of labourers, ‘navvies’ they are often called, who are currently working a railway line for my sister’s husband, to bring them up to Leicestershire for a paid holiday. They were happy to oblige, it would seem.”
“They have certainly shown enthusiastic, my lord. How are we to deal with so large a crowd of felons, my lord?”
“They are to be taken to the Militia barracks, Mr Hamworthy, there to be held under guard awaiting the pleasure of the courts.”
As was normal practice in cases of public disorder, the Lord Lieutenant of the County contacted the Lord Chancellor, the senior judge in the country and also a Minister of the Crown, to send a judge to hold a special assizes on those arrested. Such judges as were trusted to perform this particular function understood full well that their primary duty was to maintain good order in the country as a whole, and that they were to do this by the exercise of a proper severity.
Mr Justice Snodgrass appeared from his post-chaise and proceeded to set all to rights in Melton Mowbray. He swore in his jury and explained their purpose to them in no uncertain terms; they were free men, performing their duty according to the demands of their consciences, and he expected them to give him guilty verdicts on all felons. Was it obvious that any man had been incorrectly brought before the court, he said, he would see him discharged; any defendant not so treated must be, in his opinion, obviously guilty; he trusted they would agree and was sure that the Lord Lieutenant would express his pleasure to them after the event. All patronage at County level laid in the hands of the Lord Lieutenant: commissions in the Militia; places as Commissioners of the Poor Law – which gave the power to appoint beadles and workhouse masters; trusteeships over the estates of orphaned infants, all depended on his word. Knighthoods and higher honours could only be granted by Westminster, in effect by the government, but the Lord Lieutenant could always suggest that an individual was or was not of the right sort, and he would be listened to in almost all cases.
The jurors hearkened to the judge’s words and let it be known that they would be good; in the judge’s experience, they always were.
Fifty-nine men stood trial. Two of the rioters were excused as unfit, having received unfortunate blows to the head that rendered them incapable of defending themselves; one was now subject to fits which caused him to collapse without warning and the other was incapable of speech, sat mute in a chair staring into the fire. The judge heard the statements of their medical incompetence, agreed that they could not plead and piously added that no doubt it was the will of the Lord that they should be otherwise punished for their wickedness.
Two of the accused received the death penalty, having been identified to make the specific threat to my lord Rothwell; the remainder received either seven years at transportation or life, depending on the circumstances of their arrest and whether they had carried a weapon, such as a road stone.
The trials took three days to complete, rather to the irritation of the judge who had no great liking for the food in his Lodging at Melton; he thought the port wine to be inferior as well. He left all questions of reprieve in the hands of the local authorities, which meant the Lord Lieutenant.
Mr Hamworthy addressed Lord Rothwell on the subject.
“The Lord Lieutenant has let it be known, my lord, that he will be open to any representations you may wish to make.”
“How pleasing! What exactly does that mean, Mr Hamworthy?”
Lord Rothwell had never involved himself in the affairs of the county in Northamptonshire and had only the vaguest comprehension of the networks of patronage and influence, and occasional outright corruption, that made up local administration in England. He was, in fact, only now coming to realise just how powerful a figure he was as the heir to a Marquis and possessor of an unusually high income in his own right. It was not an unpleasant discovery.
“Some of the convicts, my lord, are exceptionally useful in one way or another. One of them is head groom, no less, to Sir Willoughby; others perform lesser functions in a dozen of local stables and will not easily be replaced. One is the son of a farrier – who is an important figure locally; another is the young brother of a tailor in town, a man who is quite well-off and contributes his mite to the Party each year. Others of course are no more than rapscallions taken out of the streets who joined in the riot for the fun and the offchance of stealing a few pennies – there are five guttersnipe boys who are thought to be pickpockets at best, for example. I have already been approached regarding the fate of the worthier unfortunates.”
“The perhaps I am to let it be known that I have no objection to the exercise of mercy?”
“Exactly, my lord! We are lucky that the two sentenced to the noose are neither of any significance, so they can dangle for the edification of all. Sentences of transportation may be commuted to imprisonment in England, my lord, and gaol terms in turn can be remitted in full after a few days – two separate, distinct and unrelated prerogative actions of the Lord Lieutenant. The unimportant may be sent away, much to the approbation of the townspeople who will be glad to see the streets emptied of the more irritating of the dangerous classes.”
“Including the boys? How old are they?”
“The youngest is of about nine years, my lord, the other four a year or two more. They can never be employed and must eventually hang as recidivist thieves if they remain; better they should be transported, my lord, possibly eventually to enjoy useful lives in a new land.”
“So be it. Deal with the matter, if you would be so good, sir. It is not important.”
The crowds may not have approved of Lord Rothwell, but they loved a hanging, and two together was far better sport than just the one; they turned out in the tens of thousands to watch, the streets of the small town packed shoulder to shoulder and those inhabitants lucky enough to live centrally, and to possess an upstairs window with a view, selling spaces for as much as five pounds apiece. The Militia lined the roadway and provided a guard around the gallows itself, more to prevent souvenir hunters from cutting chips from the woodwork than for fear of any rescue.
There was a degree of patriotic resentment that the authorities had hired in the hangman from Nottingham – a far busier city from the judicial viewpoint – rather than giving a local man a chance, but they tended to agree that the business must not be bungled. The town could be made a national laughing-stock if the rope broke or a knot became unravelled under the strain, for the scribblers from the newssheets would be present in force.
All went well, however, neither of the condemned given a last-minute reprieve to deprive the spectators of their sport and both choosing to go boldly, stepping onto the platform in sprightly fashion rather than having to be manhandled under the noose. Probably both were full of gin, that traditionally being the privilege of the capital felon, but they managed not to fall down until they were pushed, which was as it should be. Both men had family in the town who claimed their bodies, again to general approval - they would not be taken by the resurrection men to be sold for dissection.
The pubs were packed shoulder to shoulder afterwards and the word spread that many of those transported would not in fact be going overseas. My lord had been applied to and
had agreed that those who had not offered him direct violence should generally be allowed mercy; this was thought to show him in a more favourable light.
Besides that, the new agent, Mr Suckling, had passed the word on the quiet that the stables yards were not to be left empty. Local builders would be busy and the boxes would be made over into a big dairy to serve herds of the new black and white German cattle which were such good milkers. There was to be a cheesery, and selling as far away as London!
It took very little thought to convert that news into the prospect of jobs; there would be a call for stockmen and for any number of dairy maids and for men to do the heavy work, of which there would be plenty. Add to that, the carters would have loads to carry and the local growers would have a sale for turnips for winter feed, and for their hay cuts. It was not impossible, they concluded, that they had been a mite impulsive in their opposition to the new lord making changes, which was not to say that they approved of things being made different to the way they always had been, but perhaps a bit of new money was not so bad an idea, after all.
“Us never saw that old Massingham from one year to the next, when all’s said and done, so the Big House never spent no money in town. If so be the new lord puts family to live hereabouts, then they got to buy from our shops and farms, ain’t they?”
That message was also passed, together with the absolute certainty that my lord had guaranteed that the house would not stay empty.
Mr Suckling took that information back to Lord Rothwell, together with the advice that he should make it so if possibly he could.
“There is very little work locally, my lord. Places for a dozen of maids and two indoor men, and a gardener or two extra, and spending in the provision stores as well, would go a long way to reconciling local folk to the new regime, one might say. One may always rent a tenancy to a merchant of one of the larger cities wishing to retire as a gentleman, or to a military or naval man who intends to enjoy his half-pay in later life. Ideally, of course, will be a member of the family wishing to bring up his children properly in rural bliss.”
“Unfortunately, Mr Suckling, my only brother is resident on a plantation in Virginia and my sister is married into a small estate in Kent. I have a few of cousins, of course, but the bulk of them belong to the Andrews, who have wealth and lands of their own and on my mother’s side of the family they are not country sorts.”
If Suckling was awake to his employer’s circumstances then he would know that the mother had derived from a Jewish banking family; if he was not in possession of that information, then he should be and Rothwell would be disappointed in him.
“Thinking on the matter, in fact, Mr Joseph Andrews, the youngest of that clan, is not in possession of lands of his own. He is the renowned steam man, of course, a gentleman of Lancashire who might not find it easy to establish his family here in the rural wilds, though there will no doubt be a railway line in the vicinity before too many years are gone by…”
“That family is to an extent local, is it not, my lord? Mr James Andrews, the political gentleman, has his seat at Lutterworth, which is in the county, and Viscount St Helens is to be found just to the south in Northamptonshire. It would not be illogical, one might suggest, my lord. Might I make so bold as to enquire, my lord, whether one expects ever to see anything of Lord Massingham or his son in the estate? As agent I should be alert to that possibility.”
“Neither gentleman will ever be seen again in public, Mr Suckling. The elder, indeed, is physically frail to the extent that his ailments may be expected to make an end of him in short order. As for the younger, I fear that his madness is increasing on him; one had hoped that rest and tranquillity and the best of modern care might have ameliorated his condition, but his downhill path has continued unabated. He is now to be discovered behind a barred door, in fact, periods of frenzy and deep melancholy alternating, poor soul! I understand that he is under treatment with opium, in rather large doses, but that any attempt to withdraw his medication results only in frantic despair. His doctor now has little hope for a desirable outcome. I fear as well that his sister, my unfortunate wife, is in little better case.”
Lady Rothwell had in fact taken to her laudanum with such enthusiasm that she was now a confirmed opium-eater and spent the bulk of her days in happy dreams. She was far more quiet and restful in her ways than had previously been the case, was increasingly torpid and often forgot to eat or drink if she was not reminded. Again, her doctor could hold out small hope for her future. His last letter to Rothwell had suggested that her days might well be numbered, for ‘her vital functions were showing unfortunate signs’, whatever that might mean.
“It is a great pity, but the family does seem to be in decay. My sole consolation is the assurance that such ailments are invariably passed down in the male line – from the father to the son – and that my own boy is therefore safe from the contagion.”
Mr Suckling was saddened to hear the tale and apologised for bringing up so melancholy a subject. Rothwell assured him that he had no cause for regret – he had needed to know.
“On that topic, by the way, the Massinghams, you could keep an ear out for any tales relating to the old lord. He was not a gentleman remarkable for his continence, one might say, and it is by no means impossible that he might have descendants on the wrong side of the sheets who might perhaps have a claim to the estate’s generosity. Where an obligation can be discovered, meet it, discreetly if at all possible, informing me, of course.”
“That it very generous of you, my lord.”
“I suspect it is no more than honesty demands, Mr Suckling, and possibly something less. I have a sympathy for young men and women who are stigmatised as bastards, for indeed, it is no fault of theirs.”
Book Twelve: A Poor Man
at the Gate Series
Chapter Six
Thomas Burleigh drove slowly back to his house, River Hall, following the emergency meeting of the Poor Law Commissioners, mulling over the morning’s business. They had inspected the Quarterly Accounts of the Poor Law Union, the group of half a dozen Dorset parishes who maintained a single workhouse between them, and had been horrified by the figures. The workhouse was full, not a single bed space left in any of the wards; the overseers had been forced to permit outdoor relief – paupers coming in at meal times and then returning to their own cottages. Some of the frail elderly remained at home, their meals brought to them, which was an outrage, wholly contrary to the intentions of the new Act.
The accounts were for the Second Quarter of the year, as yet incomplete, which was the First Quarter of the Financial Year which ran from April, although the Calendar Year now started in January, to the confusion of the unlettered. The overseers had already spent nearly three parts of the Poor Law Rate and would have nothing left by mid-winter, the very time when demand for their care was at its highest.
There would have to be an additional, emergency Poor Law Rate, and the ratepayers would respond with outrage, the level already higher than it had been in living memory.
For many of the poorer folk who were so unlucky as to own their own house and a few acres it would be disaster; some of the small squires would find themselves stretched and he was only thankful that his own finances were remarkably sound.
He smiled as he remembered his dismay two years previously when an attorney had appeared at the house, begging a few minutes of him and enquiring when closeted in his library whether it was correct that he was the son and only child of Mary Burley, deceased, most recently of Corfe village.
“I am, sir, but now the family name is spelt slightly differently.” He wrote it down for the attorney’s benefit.
“Then, Captain Burleigh, I am glad indeed to have finally discovered you! My name is Huggins, sir, and I am a partner of Wolfe, Huggins and Potts, of Birmingham, sir. My card!”
His business card stated his identity as given.
“My firm was honoured with the business of Mr Amberley of Birmingham, and of his
sisters, and the husband, Mr Wilson, of the one, sir, and serve as executors following their unfortunate demise in the cholera epidemic some five years since. Mr Amberley senior had died some few years before the disease struck Birmingham, leaving his all equally to his children, unspecified by name; he had written his own Will, without legal advice. Mr Wilson and his five children died in the space of two days and Mrs Wilson, nee Amberley, the day after. Mr Amberley and his wife and one child died later in the week; the maiden sister, who lived alone, was simply discovered dead, the exact time of her demise unknown. Mr Wilson was an apothecary by trade and in a very good way of business, well known for a particular patent medicine which was also sold in Mr Amberley’s shops; they thus were more vulnerable than most, many of the sick entering their premises to purchase medicines from them, though, it might seem, to little avail.”
“That is very sad, sir. For obvious reasons, I never had contact with them.”
“Exactly so, sir! Perfectly understandable! To be expected, in fact! The Wills were read by my partners and no beneficiary for the estate could be identified. As closely as we could tell, all of the Wilson estate devolved upon Mr Amberley, whose Will, which he had no time to change, left the entirety to his sisters if all other beneficiaries defaulted. We made a search, of course, for cousins and such and turned to the Family Bible with its records, and there it was discovered for the first time that the family was not, as was thought, ended; there was a fourth child, another sister, the eldest in fact, one Mary Amberley, who had been cast off, local people informed us, as a girl of eighteen or thereabouts.”
Thomas Burleigh could imagination the joy of the elderly neighbours as they passed that juicy tid-bit along.
“My mother, sir. She made a mistake, fell from grace, and was simply dismissed from the house by her father. Penniless, one might add!”
Victorian Dawn (A Poor Man at the Gate Series, Book 12) Page 13
