Some years ago he had been delivering one day more and more urgent letters between the Prime Minister of the time, Lord Palmerston, and his Chancellor of the Exchequer, Mr Gladstone. Towards mid-afternoon, as the House of Commons was about to sit, the urgent letters were still rushing to and fro, Billy running from one office to the other. Mr Gladstone was deeply immersed in a conversation in his office with another Member of Parliament about the upcoming Budget when a further communication arrived in Billy Stacey’s hand and was placed into Mr Gladstone’s.
Mr Gladstone read it through quickly, still speaking to his companion; without looking around he said: ‘Very well, agree, give time of meeting etc etc.’
The Chancellor’s office was at this moment otherwise empty. ‘Me, sir?’ said Billy quickly. ‘Shall I write this?’
Now Mr Gladstone saw there was nobody else; he looked at Billy properly for the first time. ‘
You
write it?’
‘Yes, sir. It is said I have a fine hand.’
‘Let me see.’
He dictated quickly; quickly Billy sat at the nearest desk and wrote.
Mr Gladstone looked for a moment at the letter, then showed it to his colleague. ‘What is your name?’
Billy stood again at once. ‘William Stacey, sir.’
‘William like me.’
‘Yes, sir. I know, sir.’
‘Where did you learn?’
‘At the elementary school at Covent Garden, sir. My father sent me there.’
‘You were lucky.’
‘Yes, sir. Like you, sir.’
Mr Gladstone looked at the boy sharply. Billy observed up close the odd, high collar that Mr Gladstone wore, that everybody noticed, and this day he was wearing a small flower in his buttonhole, as he did quite often.
‘How old are you?’
‘Seventeen, sir.’
‘How long have you been working in the Parliament?’
‘Four years, sir.’
The door opened and Mr Gladstone’s son, who was also his chief private secretary, came in.
‘William,’ said the Chancellor to his son, ‘we have a third William in a crisis!’ and then he signed the letter and they all turned back to Budgetary matters except Billy Stacey, of course, who sped off to Lord Palmerston’s office with the letter.
But sometimes, after that, Billy Stacey was called for by Mr William Gladstone Junior to assist when the office was particularly busy; and this practice continued – more often – when Mr William Ewart Gladstone became Prime Minister. Billy Stacey would sit in a corner in the outer office and write out those unimportant but necessary letters in his excellent handwriting. Very occasionally the Prime Minister, working on an Education Bill, would ask Billy about
his
education as if he were a specimen from another world (which indeed he was); Mr Gladstone was interested in the boy’s replies about his learning; deeply disappointed, however, that Billy had not been interested in the school’s religious teachings.
‘Without our honouring God we are nothing, William.’
And Billy Stacey bowed his head politely and wrote on, neatly.
Mr Gladstone might possibly have rejected Billy’s assistance after that conversation. But he understood this odd and clever clerk to be a kind person; twice he had seen him helping a very pretty crippled girl across the busy, dangerous street beside the Parliament with great courtesy and patience. And more importantly, his son, Mr William Gladstone Junior, knew a good and reliable jobbing clerk when he saw one.
‘I knew you’d do well, lad,’ said the Head Doorkeeper proudly.
Which is how Billy Stacey, now aged twenty-three, was sitting in a corner in the Prime Minister’s outer office writing letters while Big Ben boomed on that Monday morning, just after
The
Times
and the
Reynolds Newspaper
and many other newspapers had first reported in such detail the felonious case brought against Ernest Boulton and Frederick Park.
All the official private secretaries were working with the Prime Minister today as well as Mr William Gladstone Junior: all gentlemen of excellent education whose families were of course known to the Gladstone family; there was much coming and going; doors opened and closed all day long.
Billy wrote neatly in a far corner.
The door opened now. Nobody in particular looked up.
‘William!’ The voice called out: loud, confident. Now everybody looked. Billy saw a gentleman of religious persuasion; his white collar and cassock announced his calling.
‘Julius!’ The Prime Minister’s busy, furrowed brow part-cleared, he nodded in hurried recognition. ‘Julius, a pleasure. But you must excuse me. We must meet another time, not now.’
‘Now, William,’ said the visitor. Something in his voice.
‘It is impossible, I am due in the House to speak on the Irish land question now.’
‘You need to speak to
me
now, William. And in private. I come on behalf of the other bishops in the House of Lords.’
The something in his voice was louder. Mr Gladstone looked impatient. Outside the door someone was calling urgently for him; the House was waiting.
‘I shall return, Julius, in an hour or maybe two. It is a long speech and a complicated matter. You of course know my son, William; he will look after you if you need to wait.’ He was already reaching for his coat.
‘Did you read about the court case concerning the apprehension of the Gentlemen in Female Attire?’
Mr Gladstone’s coat was half on, his son helping him. They both stopped, stared at the bishop, amazed at the bizarre turn the conversation had taken. Billy waited, disbelieving, to hear what would be said next, bent over his letters. His pen scratching was the only sound; the office was otherwise silent for a moment, despite all the noise and calling from outside.
‘Of what possible interest is that dirty, squalid little case to me?’ said Mr Gladstone and he impatiently nodded to his son to help further with his jacket. He then picked up some papers from the big desk in the centre of the room.
‘Arthur is involved.’
‘Arthur?’
‘Arthur Clinton,’ said the churchman.
This time Billy Stacey did look up from his desk. Again Mr Gladstone’s movements were arrested, only this time he automatically put out his hand to a chair, as if for support. And Billy saw something; saw it happening – the colour drained from the Prime Minister’s face. The silence in the room was absolute; they could hear a man whistling in the courtyard below. Nobody in the room moved.
‘Arthur Clinton.’ Mr Gladstone stared at the visitor. The gentleman of the Church said nothing more, just looked back at him. ‘He has not been arrested also?’
‘Not yet. But I have been advised by a contact that damaging and compromising letters have been found.’
‘Where is he?’
‘No one can find him. But it is likely there will eventually be a warrant put out for his arrest also. It may seem nothing but a squalid dirty little case to you at the moment, William. You are always an innocent about public opinion – and, incidentally, it is our opinion in the House of Lords, as you know, that the death penalty should never have been repealed by previous, ignorant governments for such a terrible offence against God! Ten years and hard labour is nothing! However the Great Unwashed have already shown an enormous interest in this case – there were apparently huge and very unruly crowds outside the courtroom – and that interest will increase an hundredfold if Lord Arthur’s name appears in any way, and my contact tells me it is very unlikely that we can prevent this. If I have this information about Arthur, it is likely that many others will already have it too and whatever happens we – the bishops – feel that it is imperative that nothing at all, however innocent, is published – ah – that is with regard to yourself, or this Parliament. You know very well how foolhardy Arthur is. What is to stop him standing in the witness box and—’
Mr William Gladstone Junior suddenly turned and said hurriedly to the occupant of the desk in the corner, ‘Thank you, William, that will be all for the moment.’
Billy stood quickly, leaving the room and the pile of letters that were not completed. As he left, he saw Mr Gladstone and his clerical visitor going into the private office, speech on Ireland or not.
He walked slowly back to the clerks’ office downstairs: the pens and the inkwells and the never-ending parliamentary papers.
He wrote neatly and quickly, as usual. But his mind went over and over the conversation he had heard, the officious words of the bishop and the pale face of the Prime Minister. Billy did not know that his own face was slightly pale also. If Mr Gladstone had been so affected by the mention of Lord Arthur’s name, would that affect the fortunes of 13 Wakefield-street – the address already recorded in the newspaper? Could it affect Billy’s own work here?
I cannot – I must not – lose this position
,
thought Billy Stacey.
Billy had been intrigued, since that very first meeting, by Mr William Ewart Gladstone. He knew now quite a lot about him. He knew that his father had owned sugar plantations and slaves in the West Indies. Billy studied articles and pamphlets and even looked at a book called
The State in Relation to the Church
written by Mr Gladstone many years ago, but was unable to agree with it, or finish it. But most of all Billy studied the great man himself. He knew that Mr Gladstone was a most courteous man, to everybody. But he had a temper, which he restrained by sheer will; from his quiet corner Billy had several times seen the Prime Minister when he was displeased, breathing deeply, his face redder, but controlling himself. Mr Gladstone often addressed people, even in his own office, in a manner that was pompous, loud, and sometimes long-winded. Billy understood that Mr Gladstone was very clever. He understood that he was deeply, and strictly, religious with high moral principles.
Therefore Billy had stopped stock-still in the street in utter amazement the first night he had seen Mr Gladstone, now Prime Minister, walking with one of the street-girls along the Strand. The girl was talking and Mr Gladstone leaned down, listening, as they walked. The second time this had occurred, Billy had discussed it with his friend, the Head Doorkeeper, Elijah Fortune.
Elijah Fortune had laughed.
‘He’s mad of course. Terrible risks he takes, most people consider. He is often lately seen in the company of a most notorious lady who has social aspirations – notorious, but she has recently found religion – and that to Mr Gladstone must be a combination that makes her irresistible.’ Elijah shook his head. ‘But he is basically a good, very sincere man, I believe. Tormented, I would say, but – good essentially.’
‘Tormented by what?’
Elijah had looked at Billy speculatively for a moment, knowing that perhaps he, Elijah, was the nearest thing to a father Billy Stacey now had. Perhaps Billy was also the nearest thing to a son that Elijah Fortune had. Billy was a very serious lad, and sometimes Elijah worried about him.
‘Since you ask me specifically, not that it is our business—’ He stopped, trying to find the most suitable words and then spoke very quietly. ‘In my own very personal opinion, he is tormented by too much upright morality which is – which is at war, perhaps, with his – personal temperament. A common difficulty maybe.’ And then Elijah moved to deal with an enquiry from a member of the public, whistling ‘I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls’ as he bustled about, arranging something. Elijah always whistled.
But later when he and Billy were almost alone in the Central Lobby Elijah thoughtfully contemplated the carvings of saints and monarchs that stood everywhere above them, and resumed the conversation.
‘I’ve known Mr Gladstone longer than many people here, and I believe he’s a good and very moral man as well as a significant Prime Minister.’ Elijah stared at the marble saints. ‘Everyone has demons, Billy. That is part of life. But the God I believe in is a little more merciful and less judgemental than Mr Gladstone’s perhaps. In my opinion he does, as I say, take stupid risks – so do many people, but they’re not all Prime Minister of England and Empire are they! But – he doesn’t care about gossip. He seriously thinks to rescue those street-girls from their wicked ways, that’s what you saw him doing. Been doing it for years. It’s part of his nightly activities.’
‘Does he rescue them?’
‘Well, that, lad, is hard to quantify. He talks to them about God, I believe. Seems to me Mrs Gladstone has some success – he takes some of them home and she tries to get them proper work.’ Elijah looked at Billy dryly and again spoke very quietly. ‘What he is
actually
thinking when he walks with them in the night you and I are unlikely to ever know, and it is not our business – although as you may gather I do sometimes make conjecture, having observed him for so many years.’
And Elijah whistled as he tidied papers on his counter.
Billy noticed that Mr Gladstone and Elijah always greeted each other, both long-time members of this institution. Billy also observed Members of Parliament emerging from Elijah’s cubbyhole behind his desk in the marbled Central Lobby with tears in their eyes: Elijah Fortune appeared to be a combination of head doorkeeper and father confessor. At first Billy had supposed that he must be giving his visitors strong spirits for strength and succour. But when he was invited into the inner sanctum himself, he saw that only tea was provided, made by Elijah in a pot hung over his small fire.
And Billy was surprised to find that Elijah and his wife actually
lived
on the premises, actually lived in this wonderful, historic building. Not quite the splendid apartments where the Lord Chancellor lived, Elijah explained, nor the gracious establishment for the Speaker of the House, but in small living quarters just above the basement and the drains, and the sewerage pipes.
It hadn’t taken Billy long to understand that Elijah knew everybody and kept many secrets. Indeed, Elijah Fortune, hearing the name of the new keen young messenger at the Parliament, had befriended Billy Stacey when he first started work, without mentioning that he had known Billy’s father and Billy’s mother. Isabella might not have wanted him to talk of the past, Elijah thought; he knew what had happened to her, what she had had to do, how hard it was for her, and Elijah Fortune was a man of infinite discretion.