Chapter Thirty-two: I come before the magistrates

(Following the destruction of Coldharbour gaol, Charles Huntingdon has been arrested as a suspected rioter, but has managed to send a message to his friend Henry Darnwell begging for help)

    Justice Oldminton was a short gentleman with a protruding stomach that suggested a history of gluttony; and this impression was confirmed by his bandaged and gout-ridden feet, the pain of which would not have improved his temper. He wore an old-fashioned wig and a coat stained with snuff, and his mouth contained badly fitting false teeth, which made his speech indistinct. He regarded me with ill-concealed dislike. It was explained to him that I insisted that I was a Member of Parliament, by name Charles Huntingdon, to which he responded by commenting scornfully that I scarcely looked the part. In this he was right, for in addition to the dirt of yesterday I was unshaven and had slept in my clothes, which were now very crumpled. My prospects indeed appeared dismal, and I was close to despair as I heard the worst possible interpretations placed upon my presence at the Coldharbour riot.

   Then my hopes suddenly rose. Henry Darnwell entered the court, and by his side was none other than Lord Staines! Darnwell caught my eye and smiled and winked at me, but Staines looked stern. They came forward and conferred briefly with the clerk, who then passed on the message that they had important information regarding me, the prisoner.  

   Justice Oldminton regarded them without pleasure. Perhaps he had encountered them before in consequence of some of their night-time adventures; but he could scarcely deny audience to the son and heir of the Earl of Teesdale. “Well? Can you identify the defendant?” he asked brusquely.

  “I can indeed!” Staines exclaimed with great glee, “But, sir, what I shall tell you is so extraordinary that I must crave your indulgence in recounting the story at length. For as soon as I set eyes on this fellow I thought: Why; this is none other than Harry Orton, a thorough rascal who intrigued his way into my father’s service before getting a kitchen maid with child and then decamping with the best silver! I must congratulate the justices on having taken him, and I trust he will now pay the full penalty for his crimes!”

  He continued to speak in this vein for some time, making more and more extraordinary allegations. I glanced at Henry Darnwell and saw that his jaw had dropped open with astonishment and horror. No doubt my face displayed similar emotions. What on earth was Staines doing? Various idle fellows who had been watching the proceedings now drew near to listen. Staines had the audience he always craved.

   “But stay a moment! I looked again,” he resumed, “and then I made the most remarkable discovery! If you washed the scoundrel’s dirty face, and placed a wig on his head and a decent coat on his back, then indeed I would take him for my old friend Charles Huntingdon, the respected and independent Member of Parliament for the loyal borough of Bereton!

   “Is not that extraordinary? Can this be a mere coincidence? Is it possible that Harry Orton the thief and Charles Huntingdon, a gentleman and Member of the most honourable House of Commons, might be one and the same person? Did Orton live a double life? Did he perhaps steal my father’s plate in order to fund his campaign for election in Bereton? Surely that cannot be true! It would be a story worthy of a popular novel, would it not? Or perhaps there are twin brothers; one wicked and the other virtuous; one a housebreaker, the other a respected Member of Parliament? Indeed, sir, stranger things have happened. Mr Huntingdon never mentioned any brother to me, I admit; but that is understandable, for what gentleman would ever willingly confess to so disgraceful a fact as having a brother who was a common thief?”

   By this time some of the idlers were laughing, and Oldminton was stirring in his seat as it gradually dawned on his sluggish brain that he was perhaps being made to look a fool. He did not enjoy the thought, and signalled to Lord Staines to cease speaking. Staines obeyed him, though with much feigned reluctance, muttering that there was a great deal more that he wished to say.

   “Are you trying to tell me”, the magistrate asked in severe yet puzzled tones, “That the accused here is indeed Charles Huntingdon, Member of Parliament, as he claims?”

   “That is perhaps the case”, Staines admitted, after a pause and with an air of uncertainty, “But, sir, as I was attempting to explain, there are other possibilities that need to be considered”. Darnwell could contain himself no longer, and exploded in a great bellow of laughter. Staines turned towards him and coldly informed him that this was no laughing matter, but a question of the greatest importance.

   Mr Oldminton was by now very angry indeed. His loose teeth caused him to splutter so violently that he was quite incoherent, and I feared they might shoot out of his mouth at any moment. But he was in his turn cut short by the intervention of Oswald Jarrett, Lord Teesdale’s man of business, who must have entered unobserved. He now produced on my behalf a writ of habeas corpus, a document claiming a Member of Parliament’s privilege of freedom from arrest and I know not what other papers in addition.

   Oldminton barely bothered to look at them. Instead he turned to Jarrett, whom he must have known from previous trials, and grumbled, “I can’t make any sense of what these young fools are saying! Can you understand them?”

   Jarrett appeared sympathetic. “I believe I can, sir. The accused is undoubtedly Charles Huntingdon, the Member of Parliament for Bereton. He is well-known to me and to my master, the Earl of Teesdale. If needed, I can stand bail for him."

   “It will not be necessary. The prisoner is discharged. Now get them out of my court!” Mr Oldminton spluttered. I am sure he would have taken great pleasure in sentencing all three of us to transportation, had this been within his power.

  We left the court together, Lord Staines bidding farewell to the infuriated magistrate with an exaggerated bow of respect.

  “Was I not brilliant? Did I not speak well?” Staines exclaimed once we were safely out in the street. “Oh, the expressions on your faces! And Oldminton too; the stupidest man ever to sit on a London magistrate’s bench! Have I not entertained you royally? You must buy me a dinner in return!”

 

(Three judges, by Hogarth)

After the dinner Henry Darnwell left us, and Staines and I walked round to Brown’s club together. As we drank our coffee, I asked about his mother, whom I had heard was in poor health.

   “She is recovering, I am glad to say”, he told me. “My mother is the kindest and most generous lady who ever lived. She would always exert herself to aid another female in difficulties; and I admire her for the pains she took to help the Wilbrahim child; though I would have to acknowledge that it was imprudent, for it was certain to anger my father when he found out, as he surely would. My father considers her weak and pliable, apt to be exploited by the wicked.

   “He first discovered what had happened when his friends mocked him on having seen his carriage draw up outside Wilkes’s house, and they asked whether he was intending to contribute to the North Briton! So he confronted my mother, and she admitted what she had done; with tears on her part, I am sorry to say. My father was angry with you for requesting her help in taking the Wilbrahim child home, and angry with her for acceding to the request without first asking his permission. My mother was much distressed by his anger. And as for you: my father blamed you for taking advantage of her good nature.”

“But what else could I have done, Staines?”

   “Oh, there was nothing else you could have done! You were honour bound to save the daughter of a neighbour and friend. No gentleman could have failed to act there. My father is an unforgiving man, but in the end, he acknowledged this and his anger abated. Your position in Parliament should be secure, but do not expect an invitation to Maybury this year!

  “Anyway, my father told his man Jarrett to make enquiries into the affair of Miss Wilbrahim. Jarrett has ways of finding things out. Little escapes him, like a mongrel dog in the back streets, sniffing through heaps of filth in the hope of finding a bone.”

   “And what bones did he unearth from this sniffing?”

   “He discovered that the silly child had run away to London on her own. There she had been lured into a notorious brothel, from which she was freed by none other than my old foe John Wilkes! It is becoming the talk of the town! Now you must tell me the full story of how was the rescue was contrived!”

   I gave him an account of our adventure at Mother Rawton’s establishment, with the parts played by Wilkes and his friends. This caused him to laugh out loud and clap his hands in glee.

   “Oh, what fun it must have been! I wish I could have been there too! Why, it must be the only time in his life that that scoundrel Wilkes has performed a wholly disinterested good deed! Normally I doubt if any young maiden would be safe from his attentions!

 “But what a fool the Wilbrahim chit must be! To come to London, with all its perils, alone and unaccompanied! As I always suspected, she knows nothing of the world!”

   “She came to London to see you, Staines!”

   “Did she indeed! Then she must be even more of a fool than I thought!”

   “Can you swear you did not invite her?”

   “Well, I may have declared somewhere in a letter that it would be delightful if the two of us could be in London together, but surely anyone of sense would have been aware that this was no more than rhetoric?”

   “Did the Rector, Mr Bunbridge, offer to take your letters to Louisa?”

   “Yes he did, and made me pay handsomely for the service, the villain!”

   It was obvious that Staines did not see himself as being in any way responsible for the tragedy that had resulted from his thoughtless letters, and I thought it pointless to pursue the subject any further.

   “Anyway, there was one good outcome”, he continued, “Under these circumstances, my father decided it was quite impossible for our betrothal to proceed. I am excused from having to marry Miss Wilbrahim. I understand that my father wrote to Wilbrahim to say this."

   “Yes, he did. I have read the letter”.

   Staines nodded. “I have not seen it, but knowing my father, I can guess its tone. Was it brutal? My father can be very brutal, as I know only too well”.

   “Very brutal. The shock of it almost killed the old man”.

   Staines was silent for and then said, “Oh well. But father and daughter are both alive and recovering? That is good. I wish no harm to either of them, but I am glad I shall never need to see them again”.

   “But, Staines,” I said, “I do not see any reason for such a letter. I could have assured your father, as I do you, that Miss Wilbrahim’s virtue is unsullied. She was foolish, but happily escaped the worst consequences of her folly. In the end the tale will be forgotten, and the Wilbrahim estates are still there to be inherited.”

   “You miss the point. My father was deeply insulted by old Wilbrahim’s letter saying that I was not good enough for his precious daughter, so he took great delight in replying that that Miss Wilbrahim was not good enough for me. He saw it as a most satisfying revenge. No, Charles, in the end family pride took precedence over mere land. And for my part, I am pleased that the whole sorry adventure is concluded.”

   There was silence for a while, and then I asked, “What would you hope to do now, Staines? What do you seek in life?”

   “I have no doubt that even as we speak, my father is working to find some other bride for me, though I do not believe his negotiations have met with success so far. When a choice has finally been made, and a suitably splendid dowry agreed, I suppose I will be obliged to follow his wishes in the matter. At least his expertise as far as money is concerned will ensure she is rich, and I must hope that the exquisite good taste of my mother ensures that she is not too coarse or ugly. I also hope that on this occasion I shall be spared any tedious pretence of wooing the girl. And then I shall be expected to beget an heir. Such a duty would be distasteful to me, but at least it will keep the inheritance from falling into the hands of my stupid sister and her utterly vile brood of children. How angry that will make them! And when this is done and my bride’s estates are joined with ours, I shall leave the management of them to that rogue Jarrett, and then…..”

   “Yes?”

   “Italy! Now that this cursed war is over, I shall travel! To the sun! I have always longed to see Italy! Venice and Florence and Rome, perhaps even Naples! In Italy a gentleman can live as he pleases. I shall take a house in one of these cities, perhaps in all of them, and reside there as often as I can. Farewell, England! To the sunshine, the art, and the music and the great buildings, and all the men and boys so handsome!”   

   After this untoward display of emotion he fell silent, perhaps fearing that he had revealed too much. I changed the subject by asking, “Do you consider Jarrett a rogue, then? You father appears to trust him”.

   “My father trusts him far too much! I am neither blind nor stupid, and I know what is happening. Jarrett enriches himself every day from his management of our estates! I was puzzled why my father did not also see it, and decided it must be because Jarrett uses some of the stolen money to supply Maybury with the finest French wines through his dealings with the smugglers. Why should I care? As long as enough remains to support me in Italy, I shall be happy. And you should be happy too, for the way is now clear for you to take the Wilbrahim child for yourself, should you want her. Then you can unite old Wilbrahim’s lands to your own and become a gentleman of real substance in the county!”

   I observed that he did not mention the subject of love. That was a sentiment unknown to him, at least as far as ladies were concerned.

   After we had drunk our coffee, I left Lord Staines luxuriating in his Italian dream. This was to be the last long conversation I would ever hold with him.

 

    So ended my brief career as a suspected captain rioter, and it was the end of Coldharbour too, for the troops had been unable to prevent the prison being ransacked and burnt to the ground. The rioters discovered large quantities of gin and brandy on the premises, with the consequence that numbers of them were found the next day dead, or drunk and insensible and horribly burnt. And I realised that I myself was extraordinarily lucky to escape with my life, for at least a dozen rioters were shot by the soldiers, and others were afterwards hanged. But Redman of the fiery locks was not among them: he had disappeared.

   And Joseph Byrne also escaped from the gaol; I know not by what means. To tell his story I must jump ahead a few weeks to a time when I was not in London.

   A royal proclamation ordered the escaped prisoners to surrender themselves or be guilty of a capital felony, and Byrne gave himself up. There was then a hearing before a London Grand Jury, where he had to answer the charge of handling stolen property; to wit, Elizabeth Newstead’s ruby. But to everyone’s astonishment she refused to give evidence against him, and the jewel found in his possession had turned out to a mere lump of coloured glass and not her missing ruby. Elizabeth apologised very prettily for having inadvertently misled the authorities, blaming feminine weakness and worry over the continued absence of her beloved husband. She put up a fine performance, even contriving to shed a few tears. The jury had no option but to acquit the defendant of all charges, and Byrne returned to the safety of his suburban bailiwick, where he could continue his depredations as before; though no doubt resolved never again to venture within the city boundaries. The helpless rage of the magistrates, and of the mayor and corporation of London, was evident. The only people more disappointed by this escape from justice were the unfortunate literary hacks of Grub Street, who would already have been busy composing long sentimental accounts of Byrne’s last words, ready to be hawked by ballad-sellers around the Tyburn gallows.  

   Grumbling Jack, the porter of Coldharbour, suspected of firing the fatal shot, was struck down by the rioters and left for dead. But Bennet the Cracker was never to be seen again. Did he perish amidst the ruins of his gaol, or escape the resume his wickedness in another calling? No-one knows. All that can be said for certain is that his notoriety lives on in London, where his name survives as a threat used by mothers and nurserymaids to terrify the children in their care: “If you don’t eat your gruel, the Cracker will come and get you!”