The Forbidden Door

by

The Assassination of Spencer Perceval

The novel I’ve recently sent to the publisher is set against the background of civil unrest in 1812, and the assassination of Spencer Perceval, the only Prime Minister of England ever to have been killed while in public office. Here’s what I wrote in the Author’s Note about those circumstances.

The assassination of Spencer Perceval is an historical fact. He is the sole British prime minister ever to have been assassinated. He was killed at about 5.15pm on May 11th 1812 by a Liverpool merchant with a grievance against the government.

Perceval’s determination to continue the war against Napoleon had led to harsh measures that added to the poverty and unrest already besetting the country, but that wasn’t what upset Bellingham. He blamed the government for his financial losses over a business deal gone sour in Russia. The Russians took the side of merchants who had Bellingham arrested over a debt owed by a business associate. The British ambassador refused to intervene, as the point at issue was a civil debt. Bellingham refused any compromise, and made such a nuisance of himself that the Russians imprisoned him, and it was not until 1809 that he returned to England, determined to seek compensation for his imprisonment and financial losses.

After spending more than a year petitioning every level of government, Bellingham apparently decided that he had only one recourse. By killing Perceval, he believed he would have a chance to put his case to a judge, and be vindicated at last.

It is true, as I show in the novel, that there was widespread rejoicing on the part of hungry workers when Perceval was killed, and widespread grief amongst his friends and colleagues. The ruling classes initially feared that Perceval’s assassination was part of a revolution, or might cause one, and the government responded by calling out the Foot Guards, mounted troops, the City militia, and the local watches.

It is also true that his trial was held a few days after the shooting, on Friday 15th May. His execution followed on the following Monday. A week after Perceval died, Bellingham was hanged. While justice delayed is justice denied, justice rushed so fast that the accused has no time to prepare a case must also be flawed.

I owe a debt of gratitude to Andro Linklater, author of the book “Why Spencer Perceval Had to Die.” It was from this book that I learned many of the details that form the background of the story. I am particularly indebted to Linklater for pointing out that Bellingham suddenly found a source of income in the weeks immediately prior to the assassination. He paid his rent, purchased two guns and ammunition to go with them, bought new clothing, and took his landlady and her child out sightseeing.

Linklater’s theory is that powerful merchants on both sides of the Atlantic resented Perceval’s continued fight against the slave trade. He makes a good case for his choice as Bellingham’s paymaster, and perhaps he is correct. Read the book and see what you think.

For my purposes, I chose another historical character, General Isaac Gascoyne, who apparently knew the identity of the victim without being told, claimed not to recognize Bellingham though he had met him several times, and changed his testimony several times.

All the other members of my conspiracy and their opposition are fictional.

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Misconceptions on WIP Wednesday

A short excerpt from The Forbidden Door, my most urgent current project. Isolde has just escaped a kidnapping attempt, in which Fletch was injured.

***

Isolde continued to impress. She didn’t react to Arthur’s suspicious hostility, and nor did she show any outward concern over the news that she had been the target of the attack on the carriage. Though as to that, Fletch had warned her about the strangers in the village days ago—had it really been over a week ago? She had been the focus of their attention then, so it was no surprise to him that the attack had been on her account. But kidnapping? That implied she had a value to the conspirators that Tolliver was hunting.

Unless Arthur’s joke was, in fact, true. Could it be that one of the conspirators or another man entirely wanted Isolde in the most elemental of senses? Stranger things had happened, and Fletch had to admit that Isolde was a highly attractive woman. “Can you think of any admirers who might go this far, Isolde?”

She shook her head. “No one admires me,” she argued. “My own first husband didn’t admire me. His friends disliked me so much they called me the Ice Queen. You can barely stand me, and you only married me because… Why did you marry me? Surely you could have asked me questions without tying yourself to me for life? It was just that you wanted a mother for Margaret, was it not? And I was offering?”

There were so many misconceptions in that sentence that Fletch was lost for words for a moment. It didn’t help that his headache had been building for the whole of the hour he had been sitting in his chair, and had now stepped up from the drummers in the head stage to miners with mattocks carving chunks out of his skull.

Arthur, however, had no hesitation in providing a correction. “Mrs. Fletching, I believe you are laboring under several misapprehensions. First, the crowd around Mr. Parker called you the Ice Queen as a compliment. They saw you as capable, intelligent, virtuous, and untouchable, so of course they pretended to mock you to your face, while behind your back they feared and desired you. They admired you enormously, as did Mr. Parker himself. He felt himself unworthy of you. In that, as far as I can ascertain, he was correct.”

Isolde was shaking her head in disbelief, but Arthur had not finished. “Second, Fletch, is having the same difficulty, though since he is not a waste of space like most of the men who partied with Parker, he does not mock you in order to mask his admiration.”

Thank goodness Arthur thought better of adding the third point, which was that Fletch had not, in fact, intended to tie himself to Isolde for life. Arthur was correct, however, that Fletch was rethinking that position.

“It was not just for Margaret,” Fletch grumbled. It was the most he was prepared to admit.

Isolde stared at him, her jaw dropping. “Truly?” she asked.

Whether she was referring to him or to Arthur and his gaggle, Fletch could not be certain, but he answered as if it was the latter. “Certainly. Nearly all of Parker’s circle admired you, apart from Richardson, who was set in his adverse opinion of you, and one or two others. I cannot think of any of them, though, who has the intelligence and tenacity for this kind of pursuit. Was there no one else? A neighbor perhaps? Someone you met at church? A friend’s husband or brother?”

Isolde frowned, but shook her head. “No, no one. No one I can think of. If it truly is someone who knows me, and I suppose it must be if it is an admirer, I have never noticed that he thought of me in that way.”

Fletch could believe that. Isolde was remarkably unaware of her own attractions.