Mary Anne

  A murmur rose from the benches. What was the significance? Was the note then indeed from the Duke? But who was George Farquhar?”

  Mr. Perceval at once examined Captain Sandon.

  “What motive had you for concealing this note?”

  “I had no motive whatever. I am ashamed of myself.”

  “Were you directed by any person to conceal it?”

  “No.”

  “When Mrs. Clarke gave you the note did she tell you it was written by the Duke of York?”

  “I do not recollect now her exact words, but she said that it came from him.”

  “Do you know the Duke of York’s handwriting?”

  “I never saw it in my life.”

  “Does the writing on this note appear to you to be the writing of Mrs. Clarke?”

  “No, it does not.”

  “Who is George Farquhar, Esq., to whom the letter is directed?”

  “I have not the slightest idea.”

  Captain Sandon then withdrew, and Mrs. Clarke was summoned to the bar, and questioned by the Attorney-General.

  “Do you recollect ever seeing this paper before?”

  “I suppose I must have seen it, for it is His Royal Highness’s handwriting. I do not know how it could have got into that man’s possession unless I gave it him.”

  “Look at the seal of the note. Do you know it?”

  “It is the Duke of York’s private seal. I dare say I have many like it at home. The inscription upon it is Never Absent.”

  “Who is George Farquhar?”

  “There is no such person in existence now. It was one of my brothers. I lost two in the Navy, and that was one of them. It was a name that the Duke always called me by when sending me letters.”

  “Have you ever imitated anyone’s handwriting?”

  “No, not to make any use of it. I might, with two or three women, laughing, imitate a hand. There is a game one plays—it’s rather ridiculous to mention it here—one puts down a man’s name, and then a woman’s, and where they are, and what they are doing, and then makes a long roll of it, and then one says, ‘Isn’t that like the way So-and-So writes himself?’ if they should be friends whom one names.”

  “Can you imitate the handwriting of the Duke of York?”

  “I don’t know. He is the best judge of that. I sometimes tried to write like him, when he was by. He fancied I could write his name a good deal like his signature Frederick, but I never made use of it. Had I ever tried to, it would have been brought up against me long before this.”

  “Do you always write the same kind of hand?”

  “I can’t say exactly how I write. I generally write in a great hurry.”

  “You guided your mother’s hand on the bills that were produced at the court martial of your brother. Is not that then a different sort of hand again?”

  “I don’t write so quick when I guide her hand. I suppose it is my writing really, and not hers as she has so very little use in her hand.”

  “In point of fact, then, you can write in two different hands?”

  “I don’t see much difference between them.”

  “You see no difference between your own handwriting, and the writing on the bills produced at the court martial?”

  “It doesn’t strike me there is a great deal of difference… Are you trying to insinuate that the writing on the bills was a forgery?”

  “I do not insinuate any such thing. You hold your mother’s hand and then guide it?”

  “She takes the pen, I perhaps hold it lower down, and so guide her hand. You can see us write any time you like.”

  “Then both the bills are entirely your handwriting?”

  “If you please to understand that, you may. I had the use of my mother’s hand and they are my writing, I suppose.”

  The House now adjourned, having previously agreed that a Select Committee be appointed to examine the other letters from Mrs. Clarke that had been found in Captain Sandon’s lodging with the missing note, and to report upon them the following day. Accordingly, on February 17th, the letters having first been identified by Mrs. Clarke as in her handwriting—although she was only permitted to read the envelopes and not the contents—a number of them were read to the assembled House. They were not in any sort of order, and most were dated in the summer of 1804.

  In every one there was some linking, openly or by implication, of the Duke of York with the promotion of various gentlemen—including Major Tonyn. “Tell Spedding to write in for what he wants, the D. says this is much the best… Will you ask again about an Indian Lieutenancy? The D. assures me there are two for sale… I have mentioned the majority to the D. He is very agreeable. Do you think you could oblige me with one hundred?… Most unfortunately, Lord Bridgewater has asked for the vacancy, ere indeed it was one, but H.R.H. will let me know what he can do… I am thoroughly convinced of the money being too trifling and you may tell Bacon and Spedding they must each of them give two hundred. I must have an answer to this, as I am to speak with Him on it and I have mentioned your being concerned for me… The Duke has ordered Tonyn to be gazetted…”

  The reading of the letters produced a profound effect upon the House. It was realized by all members that the letters had been discovered by chance, that Mrs. Clarke had not known they were in the possession of Captain Sandon, neither had Colonel Wardle. If they had known, the letters would have been offered long before as evidence.

  Mr. Perceval now asked General Gordon, Military Secretary, whether, in his opinion, the handwriting of the note which had started the whole matter—“I have just received your letter and Tonyn’s business shall remain as it is. God Bless You”—was that of the Duke?

  “The utmost I can say is that it bears a very strong resemblance to His Royal Highness’s handwriting, but whether it is or not, I cannot take it upon myself to say.”

  “Have you had any conversation with the Duke of York upon this subject?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “What passed in conversation?”

  “The last conversation took place at half past ten this morning, when I went to the Duke of York at my usual hour of business. The first word he said to me was, ‘As you are to be called upon to answer certain questions in the House tonight I won’t speak to you on the matter, but I can only state what I have stated before, that I’ve no knowledge of the thing, and I believe it to be a forgery.’ ”

  Further witnesses were questioned, but none of them could positively state whether the note was in the Duke’s hand or not. Among them was a clerk at the bank of Messrs. Coutts, who declared that the writing was similar to the Duke’s but without a signature he could not swear to its authenticity.

  In a final attempt to accuse Mrs. Clarke of forgery, the Leader of the House called a Mr. Benjamin Towan.

  “In what line of business are you?”

  “I am a velvet painter.”

  “Were you acquainted with Mrs. Clarke in Gloucester Place?”

  “I was.”

  “Do you ever recollect her saying anything respecting handwriting?”

  “Yes. In the course of conversation she observed she could forge the Duke’s name, and she showed it me upon a piece of blank paper, and I could not tell the difference between the Duke’s and her own.”

  “Do you mean she introduced the subject, and immediately imitated the handwriting in your presence?”

  “Yes.”

  “She showed you a signature of the Duke’s?”

  “Yes. On a piece of paper. It was either Frederick, or York, or Albany, I don’t know which.”

  “Did you make any observation on the matter?”

  “I said it was serious.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She laughed.”

  Lord Folkestone rose at once to question the witness.

  “What branch of painting do you profess to teach?”

  “Flowers, landscapes, figures, and fruit.”

  “Do you teach your pupils to d
raw letters in any particular way? With flourishes and so on?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Did Mrs. Clarke state that she could imitate the Duke of York’s signature only, or his handwriting in general?”

  “She only mentioned his signature.”

  “Were you much in the confidence of Mrs. Clarke?”

  “No.”

  “How long is it since you gave any lesson to her?”

  “I can’t say, without reference to my books.”

  “Did you and she part on good terms?”

  “She is in my debt.”

  “Has she paid you all that is due to you?”

  “No.”

  The witness withdrew in some confusion, and the House then adjourned, after it had been decided to submit the Tonyn note to some person acquainted with the differences of hands, in order that his opinion might help the House in forming their own judgment in the matter at the next sitting.

  5

  Whenever Mary Anne closed her eyes she saw the two bills in front of her and heard her mother’s voice, peevishly saying, “Why do I sign my name, what does it mean?” and she, losing all patience, answering, “For heaven’s sake, do what I tell you. Charley’s in need of money, and he can cash these bills drawn on Russell Manners. It looks better for you to sign them than for me.” Then, seizing her mother’s hand, she had guided her signature.

  “Does it mean they’ll come to me for the money? I can’t send Charley any money.”

  “No, of course not. Don’t be so stupid.”

  The wretched bills had been sent off to Charley, cashed and then returned; brought up and discussed in detail at the court martial; forgotten, because he was acquitted on that charge; and then dragged out again in the House of Commons. There was some fate, some devil’s curse upon the bills. Had she done wrong? Wasn’t the process legal? Was it forging when you guided a person’s hand? It was impossible to swear, with the Bible in front of her, that her mother really knew what she was signing. She was far too feeble and shaky to understand the intricacies of bills, of checks, of money, nor did she know what her daughter had been doing at 9 Old Burlington Street with Russell Manners.

  What if they brought her mother to the House, put her before the bar and questioned her? The thought was sickening… agony—her mother, shaking in a chair, bullied and badgered by the Attorney-General. Mary Anne tossed and turned, her hands pressed to her eyes. How long would the torture go on? When would it finish?

  No good had come of any of it, only slander. Dishonor, abuse, lies, and sordid exposure. She drank the powder prescribed for her and shuddered. Two days in bed. No visits from friends or relatives. That was the doctor’s order, and she’d obeyed it. But she could not rest, with the new accusation of forgery flung upon her.

  A tap on the door. Martha again, she supposed, to smooth the pillow.

  “What is it, Martha? Can’t you let me sleep?”

  “Lord Folkestone’s brought some flowers.”

  “Well, put them in water.”

  “He hopes you’re better, ma’am, and sends his love.”

  “Did he say he wanted to see me?”

  “He didn’t presume.”

  She yawned and glanced at her clock. Only half past nine. Hours to be gone through yet, and she’d never sleep. It might distract her to have a word with Folkestone. He was really very attentive, and rather attractive, and obviously épris, like a wide-eyed calf—he had lost his wife, it seemed, and hadn’t recovered, but bereavement could ripen the senses, she’d struck it before. She sat up and reached for a shawl to put round her shoulders, touched up her face and dabbed some scent on the pillow. “Tell his Lordship to come upstairs.”

  Martha departed.

  She leaned back on her pillow, pale and languid. The lamp by her side was turned low, which was always becoming. The tap on the door was assertive, slightly intriguing—it was months since a man had done that, she could hardly remember it. “Come in,” she said, and her voice was no longer bored but melting, inviting, conducive to cozy intrigue.

  “How sweet of you to call. I’ve been so lonely.”

  “I’ll only stay a moment. Swear that you’re better.”

  “Of course I’m better. Why are you so concerned?”

  “When Doctor Metcalfe came to the House and said you were ill and couldn’t attend today, I nearly left. It was as much as I could do to sit through the proceedings. I called him to the bar to be examined and he satisfied the House that you were really ill, but it only made me all the more anxious to see you. Is there anything you need? Anything I can bring you? Are you sure your doctor’s opinion can be trusted, or would you like me to send for my own physician?”

  “I’m perfectly all right—merely exhausted. I thought the weekend would rest me, but it didn’t. Well, tell me. How is it going?”

  “Splendidly. The day’s been spent in examining writing experts. Two fellows from the General Post Office, inspectors of franks, who came with microscopes, a second chap from Coutts Bank, and three from the Bank of England. Every one of them gave much the same sort of answer, though Perceval did his best to twist it about.”

  “What was the answer?”

  “Resemblance strong, but they couldn’t swear that the writing was identical. They thought it was the same, but that was all. What made them look rather foolish was when I asked them if they’d read the argument in the newspapers as to whether the note was a forgery or not. Of course they admitted they had, which meant, in practice, that all of them had arrived to examine the note with a certain prejudice, believing it mightn’t be genuine.”

  “So the Government aren’t any further?”

  “Certainly not. We’re just where we were before, and it won’t be settled now before division. After the experts went we had the General—old Clavering, who hoped to deny he knew you. Useless, though, when he saw your various letters. We had some fun with him. Sam Whitbread questioned him, and tied the old fellow in knots until he was glad to get out. His evidence did not really affect the charges, but the House could tell, by the way he muffed his answers, that he’d been in touch with you about promotions. Then Greenwood and Gordon were called. Nothing material. They produced a heap of papers without significance. The House was very bored. In fact, everyone lost interest as soon as they learned you weren’t coming, so there you are.”

  “How brutal of them to want to see me tortured. A victim thrown to the lions.”

  “But not at all. You never give the appearance of a victim. You look as though you revel in every moment. The Attorney-General’s the bear, and you are the baiter. The whole House raves about you, including the Government. Even Wilberforce has forgotten his negro slaves and talks of nothing else. I heard him sigh to one of his chapel friends, ‘She’s good underneath.’ ”

  “Underneath what?”

  “Underneath the surface. You’ve been in evil hands, or so he says.”

  “He’s probably right. I’ve been in so many hands, according to the pamphlets, there can’t be very much left of me. Have you read them?”

  “I’d scorn to read the filth. Look, am I tiring you?”

  “Not a bit. I find you restful.”

  “The business of the note is extremely odd. I can tell you what they’re saying in the lobbies—that Sandon realized the note was written by the Duke and would support the charges, and so he pretended he’d lost it, never dreaming that Adam would bring it before the House.”

  “Why did Adam bring it up? It could only damage them.”

  “Because, don’t you see, he clearly had no idea that the note was really genuine; he thought it was faked. And now, because Sandon made such a hopeless bungle, they’ve not only had the note read out in evidence but all those other letters as well—and they produced them. That’s where the note’s such a triumph for our cause. Perceval’s kicking himself, and so are the others. I bet H.R.H. gives Adam hell tomorrow.”

  “He’s much too scared of him to give him hell. He’s entire
ly in Adam’s clutches, I always said so.”

  “You really bear no resentment. I think it’s wonderful.”

  “What’s the use of resentment now? It’s all too late.”

  “There’s still a confounded rumor going around—which nobody believes in, by the way—that Kent is somehow at the back of us. I know how it arose—from your mentioning one day in your evidence that you knew Dodd, Kent’s private secretary. But everyone knows Dodd.”

  She did not answer. She knew she had to be wary. Folkestone, the idealist, had no idea of the plot behind the Investigation.

  “Do you know him well?” asked Lord Folkestone.

  “Who, Dodd? Good heavens, no. He’s a fearful bore, but happens to be a neighbor. He lives in Sloane Street, and likes to come here and call if he gets the chance.”

  “I’d keep him at a distance, if I were you. All courtiers gossip madly, it’s part of their business. That’s what I found so fresh when I lived in France—before the Terror, of course, when ideals were strong. They really felt reborn, a lot of those fellows, with tyranny overthrown and a future to live for.”

  Thank God, he was off and away on his favorite subject. The danger was over, at any rate for the present. Brandy, perhaps, in ten minutes to make distraction; then, if she felt in the mood, he could sit on the bed.

  Distraction came, but not in the form of brandy. Martha appeared again with news of the front-door bell. “Colonel Wardle and Major Dodd have asked to see you.”

  Silence. A horrible moment, then great surprise. “How strange! Have they come together? I wonder what for?”

  “Colonel Wardle hopes he can see you.”

  “He hopes in vain.”

  Lord Folkestone rose from his chair. “Won’t he think it odd if you choose to see me and don’t say good evening to him?”

  “He must think it odd. I can see what friends I please.”

  “I find myself embarrassed. Please receive him. If he knows I’m here there might be some foolish gossip.”