(It is autumn 1762 and a peace treaty with France is being negotiated)
I
attended the King’s speech in the House of Lords at the opening of the new
Parliament. He addressed both Houses on the forthcoming Peace Treaty, and spoke
with ease and dignity. His figure was not unpleasing, though Elizabeth might
have considered that his eyes protruded too much. All but the most bitter
opponents of the new ministry must surely have considered him a considerable
improvement on his late grandfather.
As the summer had progressed, reports came back
from Paris that, as Sir Anthony had suspected, substantial concessions to the
French were being made in order to achieve a speedy end to the war. There were divisions reported in the
Cabinet, and in the House of Commons the government was palpably losing control.
Outside of Parliament too feelings on the Peace were running high. At the
staging of a comic opera at Covent Garden, to which I escorted Elizabeth
Newstead, the performance was interrupted by some of the
audience shouting, “No Scots! No Scots!” at a pair of officers in the uniform
of a Highland regiment, and apples were thrown at them. At Brown’s club there was a heated discussion when Mr Boswell, a young Scotchman I had met at one
of the Countess’s assemblies, argued with much clear reasoning that, now we had
achieved our aims in America, the war should be brought to a swift conclusion. Others thought that more of our recent conquests should be retained, but supporters
of the peace proposals retaliated by asking where the funding for any renewed conflict
was to be found, and when our troops could be brought home from
Germany.
Lord Staines, in or out of the House of
Commons, spoke with great violence against all who might oppose an immediate
peace treaty. He denigrated Pitt’s achievements, and insinuated that he should
be regarded as mad; and was equally vehement in mocking the Duke of Newcastle.
If Mr Wilkes had been present to hear him, he would perhaps have regretted
deliberately firing wide in their duel. I found Staines looking very pleased
with himself after one of these attacks, and wondered, though I did not ask
him, how far he was acting as a spokesman for his father, and if so, to what
end? Was Lord Teesdale now a firm supporter of an immediate peace treaty?
My only contribution to the nation’s business
so far had been in my support for a Canal Bill favoured by Lord Teesdale, which
was duly made law. He advised me to invest
in any future canal projects. In the discussions on the
peace talks I said nothing, for I was waiting for a lead from Mr Pitt; but the great man
remained at his home in Kent and did not come to Parliament.
Then
in October came more changes in the ministry, with Mr Henry Fox appointed to
lead for the government in the House of Commons. I was now invited to discuss
with him my intentions in any forthcoming vote on the Peace.
Mr Fox was invariably portrayed with a fox’s
face in cartoons, but his foes, who were numerous, likened him to a wolf. I
recalled that Elizabeth had told me that all respected Fox’s abilities, but few
trusted his honesty, and his rapacity was universally deplored.
He was much as I remembered him: a heavy
man, with a face that was not unfriendly, but his dark eyes and thick eyebrows,
when coupled with his reputation, made him an intimidating prospect. He greeted
me in a friendly manner; remarking, after a careful glance at my face, “Have I not met you before?”
I
replied that I had indeed seen him at a dinner at Teesdale House, though we had
not spoken to each other. I was most impressed by such a feat of memory, for
that event already seemed to belong to the distant past. I forbore from telling
him that I had also witnessed his sons’ profligacy at the faro table.
Getting promptly down to business, he asked
me about my intentions in the forthcoming votes on the Peace. I told him that I
had always supported Mr Pitt’s conduct of the war and that I rejoiced in our
nation’s triumphs. Fox replied that his sentiments were the same, but that now
it was a matter of securing a majority for a peace treaty that was close to
being finalised. I said that I would examine the terms of the treaty with great
care, but that for the present I would maintain my independence.
Mr Fox then told me that my closeness to the
Earl of Teesdale was well known, and he expected that it would soon be
announced that his Majesty the King had graciously decided to appoint the Earl
as Lord-Lieutenant of his county; the current holder of the office, a supporter
of the Duke of Newcastle and the Whigs, being dismissed. He added that,
although his Majesty had as yet not allowed my friend Lord Staines to resume
his previous rank in the army, Staines had instead accepted the post of
Commissioner of the Stamp Duties; and that father and son would henceforth
support the government.
He next hinted to me that there was soon to
be a vacancy in the position of Keeper of Records in the Tower, to which I
replied that, at present, I was resolved not to accept any salaried post. Following this, Mr Fox brought the interview to an end, advising me to reconsider my position. I still did not know
what side I would support on the Peace, and Fox would undoubtedly be observing
my behaviour closely. It was only later that I realised I should have requested
that something be found for Martin Clifford, and Alderman Stout in Bereton, as
a mark of my gratitude and an indication of my new influence.
Soon afterwards, the ministry struck against
its opponents. The Duke of Devonshire, who was the last of the great Whig lords to
retain his post in government, was deeply critical of the peace terms. This was
deemed to be so intolerable that, at the start of November, his Majesty with
his own hand erased the Duke’s name from the list of Privy Councillors, and the
Duke of Newcastle and the Marquess of Rockingham were dismissed from the
Lord-Lieutenancies of their counties. There was now an open breach between the
monarchy and the Whig lords who had governed the country for almost half a
century.
I asked Sir Anthony Pardington what course
we should pursue when the peace treaty was eventually placed before Parliament.
He told me that it might be unwise to oppose it openly unless Pitt and
Newcastle could work together to do so. I asked him if he knew of any plans for
a concerted opposition: he said he knew of none at present, for he suspected
that Pitt had never forgiven the Duke for what he regarded as a betrayal over
the matter of war with Spain. Sir Anthony appeared much dispirited, and I
concluded that the outlook for the opposition was not good.
My attention to these great events was at this point distracted by an unexpected event which was to cause me much perplexity. It began in the following manner.
One morning at the club I was handed a
letter which I was told had been left for me. Opening it, I read that “a lady
known to me” had had the misfortune to lose a certain valuable jewel, and that
if she wished for help in recovering it, then I should meet a certain
Joseph Byrne at the sign of the Red Cock, beyond Whitechapel. It was unsigned.
I was most disconcerted by this. The lady
referred to must certainly be Elizabeth Newstead, but I had seen her a few days before and she had said nothing about a stolen jewel. Nor were enquiries about the
letter itself at all illuminating: I learnt that it had been delivered to the
club by a boy who then ran off without providing any information. The name of Joseph Byrne was unknown to me. How did this man, whoever he might be, know of my friendship
with Elizabeth, or where I could be contacted? Were these common
knowledge throughout the town? I wondered if it might be a joke of some kind;
the work of one of Lord Staines’s friends. But I resolved to treat
the matter with all due seriousness, and hastened to call on Elizabeth.
After some inconsequential talk, I showed her the letter, which caused her to
start in alarm. She unlocked the drawer where her principal jewels were kept, only
to collapse back in a chair. Her eyes were closed, her hands clasped together
and her whole body shaking; and her voice unable to utter a word other than
“Stolen! Stolen!” I looked in the drawer, and I saw that the necklace was
there, but the little chain from which the ruby was suspended had been snapped,
and the great jewel was gone!
It took Elizabeth some time to recover her
composure, but eventually she dried her eyes with a small lace handkerchief and
told me, “It must have been my maid, Margaret, who took it! She disappeared two
days ago, and has not returned. I never trusted her! Oh, how foolish I was to
let her know where the keys were kept!”
I asked her how many other people might have
known about the ruby, but she merely began sobbing again and did not reply. I
then requested her permission to investigate the theft
myself, but she did nothing
but wave her left hand with a gesture indicating that I should go away, while
covering her face with her right. I therefore departed, telling a servant to
tell her that her mistress was unwell.
What should I do? I wondered what advice my friends would have given me. George Davies would surely have offered to lead party of a dozen strong, reliable lads, all well-armed, to the tavern and threaten those present with violent retribution unless the jewel was instantly returned; and in retrospect such a step might indeed have proved better than the one I chose.
I made
my way to the Whitechapel district and located the tavern called the Red Cock,
which appeared a low, disreputable establishment. I did not enter immediately, for
in the street outside I chanced to meet a young curate who, when I introduced
myself as a Member of Parliament who wished to learn more about Joseph Byrne, responded by inviting me to visit his church nearby.
Once inside, he looked around carefully to
make certain that the building was empty, and only then did he begin to talk in
a voice full of fear of how the entire parish was in the man’s grip. But he had barely started when suddenly his whole tone changed, and instead he began to
discourse loudly of the beauties of the church and the genius of the great
Nicholas Hawksmoor who had built it. I was greatly puzzled until I followed his
nervous glances towards the west door, where I saw a stranger had entered. The
curate plucked at my sleeve and led me towards the altar, trying to prevent me
from looking back. Nevertheless, a few rapid glances showed me the stranger
unlocking a wooden box near the door that was presumably intended for
charitable contributions to aid the poor of the parish and removing the
contents. While this was taking place, I pretended to listen to an entirely
unnecessary lecture on the building of new churches under Queen Anne. I duly
expressed admiration for his church, though in reality I thought the building
dirty and in need of repair.
It was only after what seemed a long while
that the stranger left the building that I attempted to return to the subject
of Joseph Byrne. But the young curate refused to be drawn further, saying only,
“If you meet Mr Byrne, I must earnestly request you not to mention my name!”
I replied that this was impossible, since
he had never told me his name, and added, “If Byrne is as unscrupulous as you
say, I wonder you dare to speak to me at all!”
“Every night I pray that I shall not to have to remain here under the thumb of Byrne and his henchmen, and seeing their wickedness! Do you know any gentleman who needs a tutor for his children? However meagre the pay, it would be a better life!” I felt that he might burst into tears at any moment.
I assured him of my discretion, and then told
him, “The reason I am here is that I hope to visit Mr Byrne on Friday. I
shall leave a letter by the font addressed to him, and perhaps you might chance
upon it and take it to him. There will be no need for you to become further
involved." He appeared most grateful at this, and I departed.
The more I considered the matter, the more
puzzling it seemed. Had Margaret the maid really stolen the ruby, and if so,
when? It must have been taken in sufficient time for it to reach Byrne, and for
him to compose and send the letter to me. And was it Margaret who told him of
my close attendance on Elizabeth?
I decided to ask Sir Anthony Pardington what
he knew concerning Joseph Byrne. He shook his head sadly and looked grave.
“He is a most notorious robber, and has been
so for the past ten years. I am afraid that the laws hardly apply in the
outlying parts of London, for the authority of the Lord Mayor does not extend to
the parishes outside the city boundaries, and within his bailiwick Byrne is the law! He is the justice of the peace, and his brother is the
churchwarden and parish constable. They own the taverns,
and it is said that the Poor Rate of the parish is mostly spent on feasting, or
on less innocent activities.”
“Cannot we, as Members of Parliament, do
anything to stop his activities?”
“Not as things stand: no; not unless he
rashly ventures within the city limits, when he would be immediately arrested
and hanged. But why do you wish to know? Is it to recover some stolen property,
perhaps? For that is a profitable activity of his: there can be few thefts in
our city where he does not know who the robbers are, and will speedily arrest
the robbers unless they hand over their ill-gotten gains to him. But recovering
stolen property for a reward, and without prosecution of the thieves, is a
felony. Go carefully!”
I could not reveal more to him without
revealing Elizabeth’s name, so I said nothing. Seeing my hesitation, he did not
enquire further, merely advising me to avoid any encounter with Byrne.
I asked Elizabeth for permission to speak to
Byrne, with a view to opening negotiations for the return of the ruby. I was
surprised to discover that she did not appear to be greatly interested, which I
interpreted to her still being in a condition of shock. But at least she did
not positively forbid me from proceeding. On Friday I made my entry to the Red Cock.
Joseph Byrne was seated at a table. He was
dressed respectably, with his dark hair tied with a black ribbon behind his
neck. His eyes were small and darting and his face calm, but his whole aspect
was disfigured by a great scar that ran across his left jaw and down his neck.
I could not help but keep turning my eyes to it, for his escape from death at
this must have been narrow indeed. He was well aware of the way my gaze
kept shifting. He must have been accustomed to this behaviour by visitors, and
no doubt found the alarm it caused served his purpose well. Throughout our talk
a great hulking fellow stood behind his chair, watching me unceasingly with an
expression of deep hostility and suspicion, but saying not a word.
I produced the letter about the stolen ruby.
Byrne nodded.
“I believe I can locate the missing jewel,” he
informed me. His voice was quiet and calm; he tried to speak like a gentleman,
but tried too hard, and the effect was in consequence forced, unnatural and
unpleasing. I suspected he could be terrible if roused to anger.
“Where is it?” I asked, but he only laughed.
“You surely do not imagine, Mr Huntingdon,
that I am such a fool as to admit that I have it in my possession? But I am
hopeful that I could lay my hands on it. For my services I am requesting the
sum of £100.”
“Are you suggesting that you could return
the stone to Mrs Newstead for £100?” I replied. “I understand that such a
transaction would be a crime. And the sum you demand appears paltry for such a
remarkable stone.”
“But I doubt whether either you or your
mistress will lay an information on me. For you see, Mr Huntingdon, this ruby
is a fake”.
“What? Impossible!”
“Oh no, Mr Huntingdon, there is no doubt
about it at all. I am told that it has been examined by one of the finest
jewellers in Europe. A tradesman of the Hebrew race he is, who practised his
craft in Amsterdam before he was obliged to take himself to London in
consequence of a misunderstanding. This is a mere lump of red glass: pretty
enough to fool the ignorant, but of no value”.
He leaned across the table to me.
“Now you might wonder why I do not keep this
knowledge to myself, and offer to attempt to find the ruby in return for a
reward closer to its value if it had been a true stone, which would have indeed
have been many thousands of pounds. That is because I think Mrs Newstead would
refuse to pay, because she knows it to be a fake.
“It’s a strange matter, is it not, Mr
Huntingdon? Could it be that Mr Newstead, with all his wealth and his
experience in the East, was taken in by some coloured glass? Or that he should
have presented his wife with such a piece of trumpery? Or that the great lords
and ladies with whom she dines should not recognise it for what it is?”
“But she never wears it. She told me so”.
As soon as I had uttered these words I knew
that it was entirely the wrong thing to say. Byrne smiled in triumph. “So
perhaps the true stone was replaced at some time. Perhaps it was secretly sold?
More I cannot say. Well then, Mr Huntingdon ….” he said, pausing deliberately.
I also remained silent for a while, and then
asked, “How long ago was the ruby examined?”
“It first came to my attention shortly before I wrote the letter. How long before then it was taken, I cannot say”.
“And Margaret the maid, who ran away, and
whom her mistress suspects of the theft?”
Byrne laughed, though without humour in his
tone. “No doubt she absconded to be with a lover somewhere. I doubt if she was
responsible for the loss of the stone. But you cannot be too careful as to whom you employ as your servants, Mr Huntingdon; for how else do you imagine that I knew
of your friendship with Mrs Newstead? But that is no concern of mine.
“Now to business. I think that maybe your
mistress does not want this worthless piece of glass to be returned to her. She
would prefer that, when her husband returns, she could report that it had been
stolen and not yet found. If that is the case, then I would request the sum of
£100, paid quarterly, to reimburse my services for searching for the stolen
property, until it is finally recovered. Such a task might take me quite a long
time. I might still be searching when Mr Newstead returns from his time in
India.
“Or perhaps you might wish to tell her
nothing, but to pay the money yourself, out of a chivalrous desire to assist a
lady in distress ..... and to quell any suspicion that you might yourself have been the thief …..” Once again, he let the sentence hang in the air, then
added, “I am happy to take your Note of Hand at any time, Mr Huntingdon."
The interview was clearly at an end.
Speaking to the hulking figure behind him, though without turning to face him,
he said, “Jamie: make sure no harm comes to Mr Huntingdon, now or on any future
visit.” This was reassuring in itself, though I did wonder what sort of harm I
might have come to otherwise.
I returned in silence to the less barbarous
parts of London. What should I do now? I
began to think that George Davies’s suggestion of solving the problem by a
simple act of violence was the only rational response. In the end, I told
Elizabeth that the ruby had not yet been found, though the search was
continuing, and I myself arranged for £50 (which at that moment I could ill
afford) to be sent to Byrne as an interim payment. This did no more than
postpone a decision; and I prayed that something might turn up before long;
though I had no idea what!
There the matter had to rest for the time being, but it brought the first signs of a coolness between Elizabeth and me. And Byrne’s remarks awoke in me the sinister thought that perhaps Elizabeth knew the true story of the ruby, and that her distress at its disappearance was no more than acting.
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