Some Distinguished Victims of the Scaffold

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.

The repartee of one of Sir John’s myrmidons, often quoted by wags of the time as an excellent joke, is not without its moral. One of the doorkeepers refused entrance to a certain person on the ground that he had been told to admit only gentlemen.

“That is Mr – , the great apothecary,” quoth a bystander.

“Oh!” returns the doorkeeper, “if that’s the case, he must on no account go in, for my orders extend only to gentlemen, and the whole room is filled with apothecaries already.”

It would have been well for Robert Perreau had he held no more exalted opinion of his station in life than the Bow Street officer.

To the delight of all the bon ton, the scent of scandal rose hot into the air. The charming lady who had passed as the wife of Daniel Perreau proved to be his mistress. Although she had lived with him for five years, bearing him no less than three children, her real name was Margaret Caroline Rudd, whose lawful husband was still alive. Being the daughter of an apothecary in the North of Ireland, by his marriage with the love-child of a major of dragoons, who was a member of the Scottish house of Galloway, her boast that the blood of Bruce ran in her veins was strictly true, in spite of the scoffs and jeers with which it was hailed by her enemies. Early in the year 1762, when only seventeen, she had married a dissolute lieutenant of foot, named Valentine Rudd, the son of a grocer at St Albans. Soon his society proved distasteful, and the fair Margaret Caroline eloped with a more congenial partner. During the next few years she lived the life of a Kitty Fisher or a Fanny Murray – a gilt-edged Cyprian – selling her favours, like Danae, for no less than a shower of gold. Of all her patrons, the most faithful and generous by far was a rich Jew moneylender named Salvadore, whose name remains still as a landmark in the purlieus of the metropolis. Good Lord Granby is said to have visited her out of mere affection. Among others, it was whispered that Henry Frederick, a gentleman of easy virtue, like all Dukes of Cumberland, became one of her intimate friends. Possibly she may have listened to couplets from the Essay on Women, for patriot Wilkes, the member of Parliament for the county of Middlesex, is believed to have cultivated her society, going to the extent of finding her a home at Lambeth. Peers flocked to Hollen Street or Meard’s Court to pay her homage. A favourite device of hers was to impersonate a boarding-school miss or a lady of quality. Few women of pleasure have possessed the fertile imagination of Mrs Margaret Caroline Rudd.

In May 1770 she met the foolish Daniel Perreau – not stupid from the woman’s point of view, since he was a dashing dog with a taste for all the pleasant things in life – and in an unlucky moment she accepted him as her protector. However, in other respects, although he had travelled far over the world, his intellect was no mate for hers. In business he had been a failure both at home and abroad. Three times, it is recorded, he was obliged to make composition with his creditors. Only a fortnight before his alliance with the bewitching Irishwoman his certificate of bankruptcy had been signed. Still, he was a man suited to the fair Margaret’s taste, handsome, gay, and genteel, with a complacency that paid no regard to her methods of raising money – a partner, in short, who gave her back the status in society that she had forfeited.

Naturally, Daniel was more than satisfied with his beautiful companion, allowing her to pass as his lawful wife, forming an establishment for her in Pall Mall Court – the cost of which, since Salvadore and others were as lavish as ever, she appears to have provided. Golden dreams had captured his silly brain, and he believed that Exchange Alley would bring a more propitious fortune than vulgar trade. Funds could be obtained from his dear Mrs Rudd. Secret news from the French Embassy was furnished by his confederate, one Colonel Kinder – an Irish soldier. It would be easy to cut a brilliant figure at Jonathan’s, and restore his shattered credit. Thus, relying upon certain information, he insured the chances of war with Spain; but the Falkland Island convention happened to bring peace, and Daniel Perreau suffered his first big loss in the Alley.

Still, this did not deter him, for the finances of Mrs Rudd seemed inexhaustible, and sometimes he made a lucky stroke himself. In addition to her pretended fortune, which Daniel knew was not bequeathed by any relative, she declared to her friends that a windfall had come to her in the shape of an annuity of £800 a year from Mr James Adair, the wealthy linen-factor of Soho Square. This kinsman of the Pall Mall agent chanced to be acquainted with the maternal uncle of Margaret Caroline Youngson – a tenant farmer of Balimoran, County Down, John Stewart by name, another unlawful offspring, possibly, of the amorous major of the house of Galloway – and, after the custom of a man of the world, as he is described, he became even more interested than the royal duke in the fortunes of the pretty niece. It is doubtful whether his generosity reached the sum named, but with so many sources of income strict accuracy in detail may have been difficult to Mrs Rudd. Indeed, the despicable Daniel Perreau did not require them. It was a great thing to boast at Jonathan’s that his wife was a connection of one of the great Adairs. With such a surety funds might be borrowed easily.

Apparently, being much attached to her protector, Margaret Rudd was quite content to live with him in their humble quarters in Pall Mall Court, and to present him at appropriate intervals with pledges of their mutual ardour. Probably she shared his golden visions, hoping for future affluence. At all events, she gained no monetary advantage from the connection. Moreover, it was not until the beginning of the fatal year that she was mistress even of a house of her own, for the elegant residence on the west side of Harley Street was purchased on the 31st of December 1774.

Brother Robert watched with amazement the progress of the fortunes of his twin, for it was wonderful that bankrupt Daniel should be able to live in decent lodgings with a stylish lady, to pursue fashion in all its vagaries, and to throw about money in the Alley. A different man this Robert – solemn, laborious, and intelligent, making a hard-earned income of a thousand pounds a year. Nevertheless, his soul soared above his gallipots. It was his ambition to make a figure in the world, so that his wife could woo society with drums, routs, hurricanes. When he looked around he saw that fortunes were being won on every side. A wave of prosperity was bearing the empire on its crest. The Great Commoner had wrenched America and India from the hereditary enemy. To these vast markets British seamen were carrying the exports of their country. At home, the clever inventors of the North, Watt and Arkwright, Hargreaves and Brindley, had increased the powers of production a thousandfold. England was setting up shop on a scale undreamt of hitherto in the world’s philosophy. Why spend one’s life in dispensing pukes and boluses, thought apothecary Robert, when the Alley is open to all who dare take advantage of this golden age?

Since this was his character, brother Daniel and his pretty chère amie soon tempted the misguided man to share their fortunes, glad to seek the cover of his reputable name to fashion new and more desperate schemes. For earls and bishops were clients of the apothecary, and ‘honest Perreau’ was one of his appellations. Yet to preserve the co-operation of such respectability a pleasant little piece of fiction had to be maintained. Brother Robert, not a fool by any means, was willing to assist their plans, but only in the character of an ingenuous agent; a method – as, no doubt, he pointed out – that must disarm all suspicion. Thus, when he canvassed his friends to advance money on bonds in pursuance of the new policy, he would be able to pose as the emissary of his sister-in-law Mrs Daniel Perreau and her doting relatives Messrs James and William Adair. Indeed, there was a letter in his pocket, authorising some such scheme, which, not being penned by the Pall Mall agent, probably was the work of the clever woman who could give imitations of other people’s handwriting. Such a letter would be useful in case his possession of an Adair bond was questioned, but most useful of all – and this most certainly Mr Robert Perreau would not point out to his confederates – in making him appear a guileless dupe in the hands of an artful woman. Very cleverly had he arranged the saving of his own skin, this sly, precise apothecary.

For no game could be more hazardous than the one which the guilty trio continued to pursue. Forgery was needful to cover forgery. As one bond became payable another had to be discounted to provide the money. A couple of bonds to the value of nearly £8000 were cashed by banker Mills in the City. On two others the large sums of £4000 and £5000 had been advanced by Sir Thomas Frankland. In this way more than a dozen were negotiated during the twelve months that preceded the discovery. All were signed with the name of the army agent – the pretended benefactor of Daniel’s wife – and their total value reached the huge sum of £70,000. Thus the Perreaus had been able to continue their speculations in Exchange Alley. Their sole chance of coming out of the mischief scot free was a lucky stroke at Jonathan’s, or the death of one of their victims.

Public interest in the case was aroused no less by the personality of the prisoners than by the mystery surrounding the actual criminal. For the brothers on one side, and Mrs Rudd on the other, told two wonderful and contradictory stories. This most artful of women, whined the Messrs Perreau, using consummate guile, had revealed to them gradually a dazzling and enticing prospect. First Mr James and then Mr William Adair was represented as the lavish benefactor of their beautiful relative. Yet such was the modesty of these capitalists, that although they declared their intention of procuring a baronetcy for Daniel, and an estate in the country for Robert, besides setting up the twins as West-End bankers, they would communicate with Mrs Rudd alone! Moreover, such was the impecuniosity of these wealthy men that they were able to carry out their benevolent intentions only by the aid of notes of hand! However, the brothers protested that these assurances had been given to them by the lady, and that all the forged bonds had been received from the fair Margaret Caroline by innocent Daniel or ingenuous Robert, in the belief that the Messrs Adair, who had signed them, intended a gratuitous present. A most happy stroke of luck, coinciding fortunately with the period of their bold speculations at Jonathan’s! Yet what was Mrs Rudd’s motive in running these risks to provide funds from which she received little benefit, was not made clear.

Even more wondrous was the other story. Although her conduct at the house in Pall Mall – whether we deem her guilty or innocent – showed something of nobility, she had no mercy for her confederates after they had played her false. While confessing once more that she had forged the bond which the Drummonds had rejected, she declared that her keeper Daniel had forced her to do so by standing over her with an open knife, threatening to cut her throat unless she obeyed. An incredible story, but no more improbable than the other! With the exception of this compulsory forgery, Mrs Rudd avowed that she was innocent. Amidst all this publicity it is likely that poor Mr James Adair, who had been very much the lady’s friend in former days, would have an unpleasant time with Mrs James Adair, and with his son, young Mr Serjeant James, M.P., the rising barrister!

Such an entertainment was a novel and delightful experience for the British public. Since the wonderful time (fourteen summers ago) when mad Earl Ferrers had made his exit at Tyburn in a gorgeous wedding dress, and amidst funereal pomp, the triple tree seldom had been graced by the appearance of gentlefolk. Broker Rice, whose shady tricks at the Alley made him the victim of Jack Ketch three years after his lordship, was almost the only respectable criminal who had been hanged for more than a decade. Indeed, except Mother Brownrigg and Jack of the Sixteen Strings, no criminal of note had dangled from a London scaffold since the days of Theodore Gardelle. Yet a glorious era was dawning for the metropolitan mob, when, in quick succession, Dodd, Hackman, and Ryland were to journey down the Oxford Road – the golden age of the gallows, when George III. was king!

On Friday, the Ist of June, Robert Perreau was put to the bar at the Old Bailey. Owing to ill-health he had been allowed to remain in the Clerkenwell prison, and was not taken to Newgate until the morning of his trial – a privilege shared also by his brother. The President of the Court was Sir Richard Aston, who, as a junior of the Oxford circuit, had helped to defend the unfortunate Miss Blandy. By his side sat the Right Honourable John Wilkes, Lord Mayor of London, a quite tame City patriot now almost ready for the royal embraces, very different from the Wilkes winged by pistol-practising Martin, M.P., and hounded by renegade Jemmy Twitcher. This same City patriot – if we may credit one of Dame Rumour’s quite credible stories – whispered into the ear of the judge the most important words spoken during the trial: – “My lord, you can convict these men without the woman’s evidence… It is a shocking thing that she should escape unpunished, as she must if you call her as a witness!” Which advice – if the lady had been as kind to ‘squinting Jacky’ as the world believed – shows that he was rising on stepping stones of Medmenham Abbey to higher things. At all events, instead of summoning Mrs Rudd into the box, the judge startled the world by ordering her to be detained in Newgate.

In spite of the efforts of his counsel and his friends, the Court did not put the least faith in the wily apothecary, refusing to believe that he had been ignorant of his brother’s relationship to his mistress, or, if this were true, that an innocent man would obtain cash for a succession of huge bonds, drawn on the well-known house of Adair, at the bidding of a woman without making inquiries. Even granting that he was so credulous as to remain silent when he saw that suspicion was aroused, it was clear that no man of honour would strive to stifle mistrust by telling lies. Then there were other compromising circumstances. It was apparent that the Perreaus needed money to repay certain bonds that were falling due. Robert had antedated the latest forgery to make it agree with one of his falsehoods to the Messrs Drummond, for in the previous January he had endeavoured to obtain money from them by a fictitious story. Not only did the employment of a scrivener have no weight in his favour, but pointed to premeditation. In the face of these facts his guilt seemed clear. Notwithstanding an eloquent defence written for him by Hugh M’Auley Boyd, in which he protested that he had received the bonds from Mrs Rudd in good faith, the jury required no more than five minutes to return a hostile verdict.

At nine o’clock on the following morning there were similar dealings with brother Daniel. Seeing that his case was hopeless, he did not deliver the elaborate address that had been prepared, choosing to print it, like Pope’s playwright. Naturally, his expectations were fulfilled, and he was found guilty of forging one of the bonds in the name of William Adair, on which his friend Dr Brooke had lent him £1500. On the 6th of June, at the close of the Old Bailey sessions, he was sentenced to death along with Robert by Recorder Glynn, while on the same day Mrs Rudd was told that as bail could not be granted, she must remain in prison. In spite of their dishonesty, and still baser treachery, it is impossible to think of the cruel sentence of the unfortunate Perreaus without a thrill of horror. Yet no qualms disturbed the tranquil conscience of King George, who believed he was doing the Lord’s work in hanging men and women for a paltry theft.

The charming Mrs Rudd was not disposed of so easily as her unlucky confederates. From April onwards she had attracted more attention than the skirmishes with our rebellious colonists at Bunker’s Hill and Lexington. While she was at large and the brothers were under lock and key, public sympathy had remained on their side. Moreover, her tactics were not too reputable, and until it was evident that she was struggling in her prison with the valour of desperation against overwhelming odds, popular compassion did not condone her shifty methods. Still, whatever her guilt, she waged her long battle with surpassing dexterity.

One of the foremost of her foes, and not the least dangerous, was George Kinder, the Irish colonel – Daniel’s emissary in the unlucky touting at the back stairs of the French Embassy – a gentleman who had sought vainly to win the good graces of Miss Polly Wilkes. There was no false delicacy about this warrior, as the letters in the Morning Post under pseudonyms ‘Jack Spry’ and ‘No Puffer’ bear ample testimony, and soon he had made the whole world familiar with the amatory history of Margaret Youngson. Yet Colonel Kinder was too reckless in the delivery of his attacks, and, like many another dashing soldier, he found himself often outflanked. For Mrs Rudd wielded her pen brilliantly, and her replies to critics of the press were not unworthy – both in style and context – of a novelist of later days. At all events, the vulgar diatribes of Colonel Kinder helped to bring popular sympathy to the side of his fair antagonist, and this is precisely what the clever lady must have foreseen.

Another enemy, as inveterate as the Irishman himself, appeared in the person of a rough-and-ready sea-dog, ex-Admiral Sir Thomas Frankland – whom the Perreaus had swindled out of thousands of pounds – a lineal descendant of Protector Cromwell. More truculent even than his great ancestor – for surely Oliver never confiscated ruff or farthingale belonging to Henrietta Maria – he pounced upon Mrs Rudd’s clothes, and indeed upon all property that might help to repay his loans. Remaining loyal to his old friend the Golden Square apothecary – for the choleric gentleman was convinced that he was an innocent instrument in the hands of the woman – he seized anything that Daniel and his mistress happened to possess. In consequence of this brigandage there was a pitched battle between the employees of the admiral and the sheriff’s officers for the possession of the house in Harley Street, in which the former got the worst of the tussle. Running amuck at all who took the other side – Barrister Bailey, Uncle Stewart, the Keeper of the Lyon Records – each in turn received a broadside from the fiery old salt. Shiver-me-timbers Frankland – this Paul Pry of a lady’s wardrobe – wrought more good out of evil to the cause of Margaret Rudd than any other man, and his fair enemy was nothing loth to let him run to the top of his bent.

Nowhere was the diplomacy of Daniel Perreau’s mistress more remarkable than in the negotiations with her old servant, Mrs Christian Hart. Early in July there was an interview between the pair in Newgate: the handmaid compassionate and pliable; the prisoner full of subtle schemes against her enemies. Barrister Bailey was present, and a lengthy document was drawn up – a paper of instructions in the form of a narrative for the guidance of the faithful ‘Christy’ – wherein was set forth the details of a wicked conspiracy, which the servant was to pretend that she had overheard, between old sea-dog Frankland and Mrs Robert Perreau to swear away Mrs Rudd’s life. Promising to learn her story and stick to the text, Mrs Hart went away with her manuscript; but, frightened by her husband or bribed by the admiral, in a little while she deserted to the other side. In no wise dismayed, Margaret Rudd retorted that ‘Christy’ had volunteered the story, and that the instructive document was a faithful copy of the woman’s narrative as dictated by herself, another copy of which she produced, attested by the faithful Bailey. Moreover, she alleged that the whole business was a thing devised by the Perreaus for the purpose of compromising their enemy, a most dexterous plot to make it appear that Mrs Rudd was endeavouring to create false evidence! Thus, even when the first scheme failed, she gained the effect desired by its very failure. Poor, persecuted woman, thought the big-hearted British public, and what a shocking old admiral!

A little later, the fair captive in Newgate triumphed over another enemy, one Hannah Dalboux, a second domestic. This Hannah had been nurse to the youngest of Daniel Perreau’s children since the mother had been put in prison. One morning in August the newspapers announced that the woman had refused to surrender the child, and that the woman’s husband had tried to thrash the inevitable Mr Bailey when he paid a visit with his client’s request. “The baby shall be given up when I am paid for its board and lodging,” was the sum and substance of Hannah’s ultimatum. All the same the child had to be delivered to its rightful owner, and husband Dalboux was locked up for the assault. A great opportunity, indeed, which Mrs Rudd did not neglect. All the journals were full of hints concerning the horrid old admiral, who had employed people to steal the lady’s baby as well as her petticoats – about the last two things in the world a swell mobsman would choose, unless they were accompanied by the proprietress. Yet the salient fact, remembered by the British public in a little while, was that this inveterate sea-dog was the prosecutor at Mrs Rudd’s trial.

The well-known anecdote told of her by Horace Walpole, must, if true, have reference to an incident that occurred during her imprisonment in Newgate.

“Preparatory to her trial, she sent for some brocaded silks to a mercer. She pitched on a rich one, and ordered him to cut off the proper quantity, but the mercer, reflecting that if she was hanged, as was probable, he should never be paid, pretended he had no scissors. She saw his apprehensions, pulled out her pocket-book, and giving him a bank-note for £20, said, ‘There is a pair of scissors.’ Such quickness is worth a hundred screams. We have no Joans of Arc nor Catherines de Medici, but this age has heroines after its own fashion.”

Whenever a Gordian knot presented itself the undaunted Mrs Rudd was always ready with a pair of scissors!

Like all other popular entertainers, the fair Margaret Caroline had rivals in the public favour. On the nineteenth of August, “one of the prettiest young women in England,” Jane Butterfield by name, was tried for her life at Croydon on a charge of poisoning a foully-diseased old man for whom she kept house. Paramour also to this rotten William Scawen was Miss Jane, debauched by him when a child. Although the poor girl was acquitted amidst tears and huzzas, she lost the fortune that should have come to her, for her protector, who had listened to the accusations of his Dr Sanxy – the instigator of all the proceedings against the innocent Jane – lived long enough, unhappily, to cross her out of his will. For a while all England forgot Margaret Rudd in its generous sympathy for the beautiful heroine of Croydon. Soon also the ubiquitous Elizabeth Chudleigh monopolised public attention, to the exclusion of everyone else, under her new rôle as Her Grace of Kingston; while the sex of the mysterious Chevalier D’Eon continued to be the subject of many wagers.

For six months Mrs Rudd remained a prisoner in Newgate – from the day of Robert Perreau’s condemnation on the 1st of June until the morning of her own trial on the 8th of December – using every endeavour so that she should not be brought to the judgment-seat. A few weeks after the close of the summer sessions – on the fourth day of July – she was summoned to Westminster Hall to listen to the ruling of Chief-Justice Mansfield, an unrivalled exponent of amazing decisions, with regard to her status as king’s evidence. Superfine, indeed, was the quality of Mansfield’s red tape: – “The woman did not confess that she was an accomplice, but an assistant by compulsion, therefore she may be presumed to be innocent, consequently there is no reason why she should not be tried! Only a guilty person can be admitted as a witness for the Crown!” Yet the great Chief-Justice had a more cogent reason still – one that is irrefutable: “Since the lady did not disclose all she knew, she has forfeited indulgence!” Quite proper, no doubt, in a legal sense, but foreign to the eternal ethics of British equity, that has permitted ‘burker’ Hare to escape the halter, believing that it is monstrous to ask a jury to try a prisoner from whom a confession has been extorted under promise of pardon. There was no false delicacy about the learned Mansfield’s interpretation of the law.

However, his lordship was the autocrat of all bigwigs, and none but the most stout-hearted ventured to challenge his decisions. When the case was argued by her counsel before three judges, sitting as a Court of Gaol Delivery in the middle of September, one Henry Gould, who feared a Chief-Justice as little as a Gordon riot, appears to have realised that the law must keep its faith. So he gave a flat contradiction to the ruling of the King’s Bench. “How can we know that the woman was cognisant of any other forgery than the one to which she has confessed unless we bring her to trial?” demanded this judge Gould. “And if we bring her to trial we break our word!” Nevertheless his two colleagues, remembering possibly the Mansfield temper and the Mansfield tongue, maintained the arguments of the Chief-Justice, and thus it was decreed that Mrs Rudd must go before a jury. Early in November twelve judges assented to this decision.

Confident that her long struggle had not been futile, since this breach of faith must shock the public mind, the beautiful prisoner prepared to face her terrible ordeal. In a letter from Strawberry Hill we catch a glimpse of her on the eve of her trial. “… She sent her lawyer a brief of which he could not make head nor tail. He went to her for one more clear. ‘And do you imagine’ said she, ‘that I will trust you or any attorney in England with the truth of my story? Take your brief: meet me in the Old Bailey, and I will ask you the necessary questions.’ …” And when the time came she kept her promise to help him through.

On Friday, the 8th of December, she was placed in the dock at the Old Bailey. During her long imprisonment the popular sympathy had come over to her side, and a friendly crowd filled the galleries before daybreak. With much tenderness Judge Aston explained to her the reason that she was put to the bar, his chief argument being the elusive one that she had not spoken the whole truth before the magistrates. No woman could have been more dignified or composed. An air of melancholy rested on her beautiful face, which appeared more pale in contrast to her garb of mourning. A silk polonese cloak, lined with white persian, was thrown round her shoulders. Beneath, her gown was black satin, appliquée with wreaths of broad silken ribbons, her skirt draped upon the small hoop worn with an evening toilet. Above the tall head-dress demanded by fashion, a white gauze cap, dotted with small knots of black, rested lightly upon her powdered curls. It was almost the same costume that she had worn before the three judges.

Only for a short time were the spectators in doubt as to the result of the trial. None of the evidence was convincing; each witness seemed more feeble than his predecessor. Serjeant Davy, rough and ready, tore their statements to tatters. To the jury Mrs Robert Perreau seemed eager to swear aught that might save the life of her unhappy husband. Admiral Frankland, in the face of his petticoat theft, appeared to have pressed the prosecution out of greed and for the sake of revenge. John Moody, a footman discharged by the prisoner, must have been regarded, very properly, as a barefaced liar. The famous Christian Hart, another old servant with a grudge, who was answered on all points by the evidence of the indefatigable Bailey, could prove nothing concerning the forgery cited in the indictment.