Читать книгу Some Distinguished Victims of the Scaffold - Bleackley Horace - Страница 10

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“What’s this dull town to me?

Robin’s not near;

He whom I wish to see,

Wish for to hear.

Where’s all the joy and mirth,

Made life a heaven on earth?

Oh! they’re all fled with thee,

Robin Adair.”

When tenor Braham sent his plaintive air ringing through the town, few were alive who could recall the two previous occasions on which also the name of Adair was upon every lip. One day in February 1758 all London had been stirred by the elopement of Lady Caroline Keppel, daughter of second Earl Albemarle, with a rollicking Irish physician who may have been the Robert of the ballad; while during the summer of 1775 the whole world was wondering whether a man or a most beautiful woman must go to Tyburn for using the signature of Mr. William Adair, the rich army agent, cousin to Dr. Robin of wedding and song. In the first romance the hero received the just title of ‘the fortunate Irishman’: in the latter the chief personages were ‘the unfortunate brothers’ Messrs Robert and Daniel Perreau. Their disaster happened thus:—

On a Tuesday morning, the 7th of March 1775, a slender, middle-aged gentleman walked into the counting-house of Messrs Drummond, the great bankers of Charing Cross. Garbed in a trim snuff-coloured suit, and betraying none of the macaroni eccentricities with the exception of a gold-laced hat, his dress suited the rôle that he played in life—a sleek and prosperous apothecary. This Mr. Robert Perreau of Golden Square was welcomed cordially by Henry Drummond, one of the partners in the firm, for an apothecary was almost as eminent as a doctor, and the men had met and known each other at such houses as my Lord Egmont’s or that of my Lady Lyttelton. Producing as security a bond for £7500, bearing a signature that should have been honoured by any house in London, the visitor requested a loan of £5000. However, strange to say, banker Henry, who had been joined by his brother Robert, seemed dissatisfied.

“This bond is made payable to you,” he remarked. “Was you present when it was executed?”

“No, I was not present,” was Mr. Perreau’s reply.

“It is not the signature of William Adair, the late army agent of Pall Mall,” was the startling comment of Robert Drummond. “I have seen his drafts many a time!”

The prim countenance of the apothecary remained unperturbed.

“There is no doubt but it is his hand,” he answered, with perfect composure, “for it is witnessed by Mr. Arthur Jones, his solicitor, and by Thomas Stark, his servant.”

“It is very odd,” replied the incredulous Robert Drummond. “I have seen his hand formerly, and this does not appear to be the least like it.”

Brother Henry Drummond echoed the same sentiment, whereupon Mr. Robert Perreau waxed mysterious and emphatic.

“Mr. Adair is my particular friend,” he declared. “There are family connections between us. … Mr. Adair has money of mine in his hands, and allows me interest.”

“Come to-morrow, Mr. Perreau,” said Henry Drummond, “and we will give you an answer.”

Having received this promise the apothecary departed, but after the lapse of two hours he returned, and was seen by banker Henry once more. Without the least reserve he confessed that he had been much concerned by what the Messrs Drummond had told him.

“I could not be easy in my mind till I had called on Mr. Adair,” he explained. “Luckily I catched him in his boots before he went to take his ride.”

Naturally, the good banker listened with interest, noting the words, for it seemed odd that Mr. William Adair, the rich squire of Flixton Hall in Suffolk, whose son was carrying on the army agency, should raise money in such a style.

“I produced the bond to Mr. Adair,” Robert Perreau continued. “It was his signature, he said, but he might possibly have altered his hand from the time you had seen him write. … You might let me have the £5000, Mr. Adair said, and he would pay the bond in May, though it is not payable till June.”

The astute banker, who had talked the matter over with his brother in the interim, did not express his doubts so strongly.

“Leave the bond with me,” he suggested to his visitor, “in order that we may get an assignment of it.”

Which proposal Mr. Robert Perreau assented to readily, believing, no doubt, that it was a preface to the payment of his money. In the course of the day the document was shown to a friend of Mr. Adair, and finally exhibited to the agent himself. Attentive to the hour of his appointment, Mr. Perreau left his gallipots in Golden Square, and reached the Charing Cross bank at eleven o’clock on the following morning. Both partners were ready for him, and suggested that to clear up all doubts it would be wise to call upon Mr. William Adair without delay. To this the apothecary assented very readily—indeed, in any case a refusal would have aroused the worst suspicions. As it was a wet morning, he had come in his elegant town coach, and he drove off immediately with one of the bankers to the house of the late agent in Pall Mall. Upon their entrance the squire of Flixton took Mr. Henry Drummond by the hand, but, to the surprise of the worthy banker, made a bow merely to the man who had boasted him as his ‘particular friend’ Then, the bond being produced, Mr. Adair at once repudiated the signature. For the first time Robert Perreau betrayed astonishment.

“Surely, sir,” cried he, “you are jocular!”

A haughty glance was the sole response of the wealthy agent.

“It is no time to be jocular when a man’s life is at stake,” retorted the indignant Henry Drummond. “What can all this mean? The person you pretend to be intimate with does not know you.”

“Why, ’tis evident this is not Mr. Adair’s hand,” added his brother, who had just arrived, with similar warmth, pointing to the forged name.

“I know nothing at all of it,” protested the confused apothecary.

“You are either the greatest fool or the greatest knave I ever saw,” the angry banker continued. “I do not know what to make of you. … You must account for this. … How came you by the bond?”

Then there was a hint that a constable had been summoned, and it would be best to name his accomplices.

“How came you by the bond?” repeated Mr. Drummond.

At last the bewildered Mr. Perreau seemed to realise the gravity of his position.

“That will appear,” he replied, in answer to the last remark, “if you will send for my sister.”

“Who may she be?”

“Why, my brother Mr. Daniel Perreau’s wife.”

Calling his servant, the apothecary bade him take the coach for his sister-in-law, who, he said, might be at her home in Harley Street, but most likely with his wife at his own house in Golden Square. It was evident that the carriage did not go farther than the latter direction, for in a short time it brought back the lady, who was ushered into the room. Then indeed the hearts of those three hard-pated men of finance must have been softened, for their eyes could have rested upon no more dazzling vision of feminine loveliness within the British Isles. Of medium height, her figure was shaped in the robust lines of graceful womanhood, but the face, which beamed with an expression of childish innocence, seemed the daintiest of miniatures, with tiny, shell-like features, and the clearest and fairest skin. In the fashion of the time her hair was combed upward, revealing a high forehead, and the ample curls which fell on either side towards her neck nestled beneath the smallest of ears. Without a tinge of colour, her complexion was relieved only by her red lips, but the healthy pallor served to heighten her radiant beauty. A thin tight ribbon encircled her slender neck. Below the elbow the close sleeves of her polonese terminated in little tufts of lace, while long gloves concealed her round, plump arms. Dress, under the influence of art, was beginning to cast off its squalor.

Grasping the situation in a moment, this lovely Mrs. Daniel Perreau asked if she might speak with her brother-in-law alone, but the request was refused. Then the beauty, making full use of her shining blue eyes, besought Mr. Adair to grant her a private interview. But the old man—not such a gay dog as kinsman Robin—was proof against these blandishments.

“You are quite a stranger to me,” he answered, “and you can have no conversation that does not pass before these gentlemen.”

For a short time the beautiful woman appeared incapable of reason. At last she seemed to make a sudden decision.

“My brother Mr. Perreau is innocent,” she cried, in an agony of distress. “I gave him the bond. … I forged it! … For God’s sake, have mercy on an innocent man. Consider his wife and children. … Nobody was meant to be injured. All will be repaid.”

“It is a man’s signature,” objected one of the bankers. “How could you forge it?”

Seizing a pen and sheet of paper, she imitated the name on the bond with such amazing fidelity that all were convinced. Then, according to promise, Robert Drummond destroyed the writing, for he, at least, was determined that no advantage should be taken of her confidence.

Little information was gained from Daniel Perreau—twin brother of the apothecary—who had been summoned from his spacious home in Harley Street, save shrugs of shoulders and words of surprise. Between him and Robert there was a striking likeness. Both were handsome and well-proportioned men, but a full flavour of macaroni distinguished the newcomer—a ‘fine puss gentleman’ of the adventurous type. To him dress was as sacred as to his great predecessor, Mr. John Rann of the Sixteen Strings, who only a few months previously had met with a fatal accident near the Tyburn turnpike. Indeed, the macaroni was as great an autocrat as the dandy of later days, and princes, parsons, and highwaymen alike became members of his cult. So the gentleman from Harley Street, flourishing his big stick, and shaking the curled chignon at the back of his neck, tried with success to look a great fool.

Quite appropriately, it was the woman who determined the result. Less dour than the squire of Flixton, the two bankers had no objection to accompany her into an adjacent room, where they listened with sympathy to her prayers. Being younger men than Mr. Adair, they were full of respect for her brave deed of self-accusation, moved by the piteous spectacle of beauty in tears. In the end, confident that she spoke the truth, they began to regard Robert Perreau as her innocent dupe. So the constable was sent away, for macaroni Daniel seemed too great an idiot to arrest, and it was preposterous to dream of locking up his lovely wife. Thus the three grave financiers promised that the adventure should be forgotten, and the Messrs Perreau drove away from the house in Pall Mall in Robert’s coach, assured that they had escaped from a position which might have cost them their lives. Almost as clever as she was beautiful was this charming Mrs. Daniel Perreau.

Surely, all but a fool would have tried to blot the incident from his mind, content that the gentlemen concerned believed his honour to be unsullied, too humane to betray a pretty sister into the bloody hands of justice—all but a fool, or a criminal seeking to escape by sacrificing an accomplice! Yet Mr. Robert Perreau, although anything but a fool, would not rest. Without delay he sought advice from a barrister friend, one Henry Dagge, with the amazing result that on the following Saturday forenoon, the 11th of March, he appeared before Messrs Wright and Addington at the office in Bow Street to lay information against ‘the female forger’ Luckily, the magistrates took the measure of the treacherous apothecary, and committed him as well as the lady to the Bridewell at Tothill Fields. On the next day, fop Daniel—a base fellow, who had acted as decoy while his brother was effecting the betrayal—was sent to keep them company. It was a rueful hour for the two Perreaus when they tried to pit their wits against a woman.

On Wednesday morning, the 15th of March, in expectation that the three distinguished prisoners would appear before Sir John Fielding, the Bow Street court was besieged by so large a crowd that it was deemed prudent to adjourn to more commodious quarters in the Guildhall, Westminster. Surprising revelations were forthcoming. It was found that the forgery discovered seven days ago was only one of many. Two other persons—Dr. Brooke and Admiral Sir Thomas Frankland—less cautious than the Drummonds, came forward to declare that they had obliged their friend Mr. Perreau by discounting similar bonds, all of which bore the signature of William Adair! Plain indeed was the motive of Robert’s betrayal. It was not enough that the bankers should forgive him—it was needful that the woman must answer as scapegoat for much more.

Never had a fairer prisoner stood before the blind magistrate than the intended victim. Above a striped silk gown she wore a pink cloak trimmed with ermine, and a small black bonnet—as usual, daintiest of the dainty, in spite of her tears and shame. Hitherto, she had given splendid proofs of courage and loyalty, but treachery had changed her heart to stone, and she lent herself to a cunning revenge. A youthful barrister named Bailey, who was hovering around Bow Street soon after her arrest, had been lucky enough to be accepted as her counsel. Clever almost as his client—in spite of contemporary libels from Grub Street, that repute him more intimate with Ovid’s Art of Love than Glanvill or Bracton—he came forward with the naïve suggestion that she should be admitted as evidence for the Crown! And a witness she was made there and then, two days later being let loose on bail, which created a very pretty legal causerie in a little while. On the other hand, the unhappy brothers were committed to the New Prison, Clerkenwell, on the capital charge of forgery. All this was very welcome entertainment for the fashionable mob that crushed into the Westminster Guildhall.