Scenes of Clerical Life; the remarkable story of the Rev. Basil Claude Hudson Andrews (1867-1963? final resting place unknown)

 

This kindly looking old cove is the Reverend Basil Andrews, for forty years the chaplain at Kensal Green Cemetery. The most famous funeral service he conducted, certainly the one he remembered in later life, was for Winston Churchill’s two-year-old daughter Marigold in August 1921. A grief-stricken Churchill asked the assembled press photographers not to take pictures and it is always said that they quietly left without taking any shots of the private funeral. But researching the life of Reverend Andrews I came across a grainy photo on the front page of the Daily Mirror for Saturday 27 August 1921 which shows a clergyman, it must be him, conducting the final part of the service in front of an open grave. Churchill stands with stooped shoulders, supporting himself with a walking stick, by Andrews’ side.  A large crowd of mourners is gathered on the far side of the grave; it seems to have been a very public ‘private’ funeral for the two-year-old. Thirty years later a disgraced Andrews was recalling the funeral for the benefit of a journalist, from the Sunday Dispatch, whose distrust of the cleric’s uncorroborated word was so great that he felt obliged to go and check the story in newspaper files. The Reverend Basil Andrews was, it has to be said, not a man to be trusted.

Basil Claude Hudson Andrews was born at the vicarage of St Luke's, Kentish Town in 1867. His father Charles was the vicar of St Luke's and Basil was the youngest of seven children. He was educated privately at St Edward’s School Oxford and, for reasons which were almost certainly nothing to do with religious conviction, he decided to follow in his father’s footsteps and become ordained as a clergyman in the Church of England.  At the age of 24 he became a missionary in South Africa, where he spent four years before moving on to take up a clerical position in Toronto. In Canada he made his first marriage, to Annie Maud Rackham in December 1895. The couple had two children, a son Arthur who was born in 1897 and a daughter Naomi who was born in January 1901 but died just a month later (Arthur was also to die young, in 1922 at the age of 25). The marriage evidently did not go well because a couple of years later Basil returned to England apparently abandoning his wife and young son in Canada. He then spent three years as a curate at the parish of St Leonards, in Watlington, Oxfordshire before his tenure ended in mysterious circumstances. In 1907 he became the chaplain at Kensal Green cemetery, a job he remained in for the next forty years. 

The 1911 census shows the 43-year-old Basil living at Flat 5, 89 Elgin Crescent with his 27-year-old ‘wife’, Emma Louise Andrews. In truth Basil and Emma were, ironically, living together without benefit of clergy. Basil was, after all, still married to Annie in Canada. At the same time he also seems to have been carrying on a relationship with a woman called Alice Clark as she gave birth to a son in Hackney in 1913 and Basil is the registered father. Despite this his relationship with Emma seems to have been a serious one; they were certainly still masquerading as man and wife on the 1921 census, though she may not have known about his amorous adventures in Hackney. Basil could have made an honest woman of Emma as his first wife died in March 1921. He may have been able to marry her even earlier; Annie remarried in 1915, either because she and Basil had divorced or because she thought she could get away with bigamy. In any case Basil was free to remarry by 1921 at the latest but there is no record of a marriage ever taking place.  Electoral records show Emma as living at Elgin Avenue with Basil until 1931; she then disappears from the record, untraceable now because Andrews was never her real name.

Financial difficulties as well as Basil’s reluctance to pop the question were probably the cause of the breakdown of his relationship with Emma. By 1925 Basil was bankrupt, owing £6500 to his creditors and having only £300 in assets. Although he wasn’t admitting it to anyone, Basil was a gambler and a spendthrift. To the court he claimed that he had only got into financial difficulties trying to help out an unnamed friend. This is from the Kensington Post of 09 January 1925;

A CHAPLAIN’S GUARANTEE, At Bankruptcy Buildings, Carey Street, the first meeting was held of the creditors under a receiving order made against Basil Claude Hudson Andrews, clerk in Holy Orders, whose address was given as Elgin Avenue. The receiving order was made on the debtor’s own petition. From the statement made by Mr. Walter Boyle, Senior Official Receiver, it appeared that the debtor estimated his liabilities at £6,500, and his assets at £300, apart from a claim of against a friend, who was an undischarged bankrupt. The debtor was ordained in 1890. He had taken duty in South Africa and in Canada, and from 1906 until 1908, when he was appointed chaplain at Kensal Green, he acted as organising secretary for the Church of England Waifs and Strays Society for the dioceses of Oxford and Peterborough. He became guarantor for his friend, who had borrowed £500 from a moneylender, and to meet his guarantee he had himself been forced to obtain loans. In the hope that his friend might repay him, he had borrowed from moneylenders. He attributed his insolvency to the high interest he had to pay. It was decided that the estate should remain in the hands of the Official Receiver.

In 1932 Basil married again, this time a wealthy widow, Edith Isabella Henderson.  Edith, and her money, seem to have kept Basil out of trouble for the next 20 years. He retired from Kensal Green in 1947 and the couple carried on living quietly in the Elgin Crescent flat until Edith died in 1952. Following her death the 85-year-old Basil found himself gradually slipping into a way of life that would eventually make him, temporarily at least, the most famous, and notorious, clergyman in England. Quite what happened we do not know but by 1955 Basil was apparently almost destitute, no longer living at Elgin Crescent, hanging around the Cumberland Hotel in Bayswater, helping himself to continental breakfasts and whatever else he could cadge from the staff or guests, betting heavily on the horses and asking for favours from the other shady characters who used the hotel as a base for their shady activities. 

Jack 'Spot' Comer and his wife Margaret (Rita Molloy) after his acquittal on stabbing charges  

In the hot afternoon of Thursday 11 August 1955 an argument between two middle-aged men broke out outside the Bar Italia on Frith Street in Soho. The argument quickly turned violent and both men pulled out blades. The two combatants were 43-year-old Jacob Colmore aka Jack Comer or Jack Spot and the slightly younger and taller George Arthur Albert Dimeo aka Albert Dimes or Italian Al. The fight, in which both men were seriously injured, was the climax of a long running power struggle between Jewish gangland boss Jack Spot and his one-time protegee Billy Hill. Hill encouraged Dimes to refuse to pay protection money to Spot and the result was the fracas outside the Bar Italia. That no one was killed in the fight is generally credited to Mrs Stone Hyams. the 13 stone wife of a Frith Street greengrocer, who laid about both men with a cast iron frying pan. When Spot found himself in court charged with stabbing Dimes a key witness was the Reverend Basil Andrews who had apparently witnessed the fight from the other side of Frith Street and quite clearly seen Dimes pull his weapon first and inflict the first wound. The jury drew the conclusion that Spot had acted in self defence and he was acquitted.  The Reverends performance in the witness box may have convinced the jury but the police and perhaps more crucially, the press, were not fooled. The police were chary of questioning 88-year-old clergymen on whether he had perjured himself in the witness box but the press had no compunctions. Basil found himself besieged in his rented room by Fleet Street’s finest.

“When I was living in Inverness-terrace,” he later recalled, “I was bombarded by these beastly reporters who have no decency in them and who do nothing but bully and nag and treat you abominably. They came upstairs while I was in bed and when I opened the door, they put their foot in the door and treated me disgracefully. It is a disgrace for the Press to treat a man like at. I believe a reporter of the Daily Telegraph came to my room and he happened to be an extremely nice man. I do not know his name. He asked me lots of questions about my life. He said: ‘Of course, in the future, at some time or other, if you tell us a story it might be worth your while,’ something to that effect.” Garrulous Basil ended up confiding in the nice man from the Daily Telegraph, the newspaper published, the police questioned Basil and by December Spot’s 27-year-old Mrs. Margaret Comer, of Hyde Park Mansions, Marylebone; Peter MacDonough, 45, of Upper Berkeley-street, Mayfair; Morris Goldstein, 43, of Gore - road, Hackney, and Bernard Schack, 53, of Maple-place, Stepney found themselves behind the dock accused of conspiracy to pervert the course of Justice. Basil was the main prosecution witness. According to the daily Express he “said in a pulpit-loud voice at Bow-street court yesterday: “The evidence I gave at the Old Bailey trial of Jack Comer was all lies. I never saw the fight I described; I was not even there. I got £64 for the lies I told.” Under questioning from the prosecution barrister and the 3 counsels for defence he told the court that he had been first approached by McDonough in the Cumberland Hotel, then met Goldstein and Schack before been driven by car next day “to a flat in Hyde Park Mansions from Inverness-terrace, Bayswater, where I was living. At Hyde Park Mansions we went to a flat on the fifth floor. I was shown into a very nicely furnished sitting-room with large armchairs and was introduced to Mrs. Comer. She was extremely nice and offered me a cup of tea. She was very friendly and pleased to see me. I think she expressed herself as being so thankful that I was going to help them. She was in a terrible state of anxiety about her husband. I felt extremely sorry for her. At the end of my first visit to the flat Mrs. Comer gave me a £1 note. . .  I am not positive whether it was £1 or 10s. to pay for a taxi.” Basil was taken to Frith Street to fix the topography of the knife fight in his head, and comprehensively rehearsed in his story before been taken to see Spot’s solicitor to make a statement. The jury found all four defendants guilty. Margaret Comer was fined £50 but the three men were all given jail sentences, McDonough and Schack 12 months and Goldstein two years.

A few months after his wife's conviction for conspiracy, Jack and Rita were attacked by a gang of Billy Hill's enforcers, including Mad Frankie Fraser. In this famous photo Jack shows off his injuries from the attack

The perjuring parson had found himself an unexpected celebrity following the initial trial. The newspapers were keen to find out more about him and contrary to what he told the court in the conspiracy case, it wasn’t just the Daily Telegraph he had spoken to.  Even when he did refuse to speak to journalists some old acquaintances were not so reluctant, turning out to be blabbermouths who could just not stop themselves talking once a reporter flipped open his notebook and asked them a question or two.  This is from the Daily Herald of 26 September 1955;

In the past two years Mr. Andrews appears to have abandoned the settled life which he had hitherto led. For about 40 years he lived at a flat in Elgin-avenue, Maida Vale—first with his wife and later, after she died, alone. Since leaving there two years ago he has had a number of addresses. Mrs. Gertrude Vizard, caretaker of the Elgin-avenue flats, remembers him. "He had many friends at Oxford," she said last night, "and was often visited by a woman from Oxford who had a young daughter. He was a kind and quiet gentleman, but never had much money. I once lent him £8 to settle an income tax demand but he paid me back." The Rev. Basil Andrews had appointments in Canada until came this country in 1901 and became curate at St. Peter's, Eaton-square, S.W. Then for 40 years he was chaplain at Kensal Green Cemetery until he retired in 1947. In the last few years has worked the tough streets of Soho among criminals and girls who have "gone astray."

Even more damaging was the story in the Sunday Dispatch on the 2nd of October 1955 which appeared under the headlines ‘From diamond fields to the West End stage, the strange life of the ‘Jack Spot’ parson, Women travelled miles to hear him preach’;

"The parson with the silver voice." That is how the people of Watlington, Oxfordshire, remember the Rev. Basil Andrews, key witness in the sensational Jack ("Spot") Comer case. Older parishioners recall the tall, dark, wavy-haired curate whose brilliant preaching filled the church 45 years ago. They remember that many women came from miles around to hear him. For three years they thronged to listen to the "dapper" curate. Then Mr. Andrews went as suddenly as he came. "He disappeared from the White House at Church Close with his smartly dressed wife and son one week-end," Mr. Harold Searly, 70-year-old clothier, told me, "In a way we were sorry to him go. We will never forget his three years at St. Luke's Parish Church." Mr. Surly said It was understood that Mr. Andrews left because women parishioners were paying him too much attention. "I was always in the congregation," Mr. Searly added. "So were my sisters. He was so interesting. He helped the church no end. He was a vigorous worker and looked after the choir. Two years ago he came back to our village. I hardly recognised him. He told me he was retired and wanted to meet old friends."

Mr. F. Storer, of the Mill House. Cooksham-road, Watlington, told me: "He stayed here sometimes with my mother and father. He was a great friend of the family. I know of no relationship between us, though my sister, Mrs. Sybil Owen. of Eastleigh, Southend, Garsington, Oxford, has been described as his niece. I saw him about four years ago. He came here with Sybil and I drove him around. My mother knew him before she married my father, who was organist at St. Luke's Church.” Friends of Mr. Arthur Owen, Sybil's husband, told me: "Mrs. Owen has been away for three years. She returned Just over a week ago. I was surprised to see that she has become a blonde after three years away."

Later. Mr. Andrews became minister at All Souls Church of England Chapel in Kensal Green Cemetery. He had a flat in Elgin Avenue, W. In the past ten years he was a fairly frequent visitor to a public house at Kensal Green. He would go in, drink five pints of beer and have a set lunch. It was not unusual for him to leave a half a crown tip. In the neighbourhood people told me: " He used to buy a midday racing paper. He telephoned his bets. Sometimes his language was unclerical."

In Soho Mr. Andrews was also well known. "In the years I've known him he always liked a gamble," a friend said. The silver tongue of the whitehaired. bent-shouldered Rev. Basil Claude Andrews has not deserted him in his 89th year. He tells how, at the age of 23, he went to South Africa as a missionary. He shook hands with Cecil Rhodes within 60 minutes of disembarking at Cape Town. But for his wanderlust, he says, he could have been a bishop in Toronto, Canada. After three years In South Africa. and wandering round the diamond fields of Kimberley, meeting and drinking with "some of the worst scoundrels in the world," Andrews sailed for Canada. There. in Toronto he became secretary to the bishop and priest-vicar at the cathedral. Mr. Andrews's next recollection takes him to London's West End and he believes the Lyric Theatre. There he had tea on the stage with actress Marie Löhr while the curtain was down between acts. Another experience he tells about was reading the burial service at Kensal Green Cemetery over the child of Winston Churchill. who was then Colonial Secretary. (This service—on two-year-old Marigold Frances Churchill — has been verified in newspaper files). Not long ago. Mr. Andrews says. he went for help--because he was hard up—to the Rt. Rev. Cyril Eastaugh, Bishop of Kensington. "But." says Mr. Andrews. his thin lips tightening, "the bishop was most unsympathetic. He despises me because I have borrowed money and not pad it back, and in particular, borrowed it from members of the Church."

After the trial, and rather unusually or an 88-year-old man, the Reverend Basil disappears from the official record. Given that he was 88 he can’t have lived for very much longer but there is no trace of a death record for Basil Andrews in the UK, in Ireland or abroad. Did embarrassed relatives spirit him away? Quite possibly; there are rumours that he died in 1963, though no records are available to back this up. The rumours originate from Australia; his son with Annie Clark moved to New Zealand in the 1920’s. Perhaps Basil spent his final years living down under, living under an assumed name.

His death isn’t the only mystery still unsolved from Basil’s colourful life. James Morton in an article for the Law Society mentions in passing that Basil lived for 20 years with a woman called Ruby Young. Coincidentally Ruby was also someone who achieved national notoriety as a result of appearing as a witness in a court case. Her 15 minutes of fame had come in 1907 when she gave evidence in the trial of Robert Wood who was accused of murdering Phylis Dimmock, a prostitute, in Camden Town. Phylis had been found at her lodgings with her throat cut clutching a postcard of a rising sun. A photograph of a postcard was printed in the papers and Wood, an artist, came forward to admit not only that the drawing was his but that he had known Phylis. Wood also persuaded Ruby Young, an old girlfriend of his, to give him an alibi for the night of the murder, but she later changed her mind and went to a journalist and the police with the story. Ruby was called as a prosecution witness and she suddenly found herself famous. It had become clear in the course of her evidence that she had had an intimate relationship with Wood, and she was attractive and not averse to posing for newspaper photographers. This did not go down well with the jury who seemed to believe the defence’s suggestion that Ruby had made the whole thing up to get the £100 reward offered by The News of the World for anyone able to identify the handwriting on the rising sun postcard. Wood was found not guilty. If Morton is correct when would Ruby Young have lived with Basil? We know that Basil did live with a woman for more than 20 years; the woman who on the 1911 and 1921 census and the electoral roll is named as Emma Louisa Andrew. Are Ruby and Emma the same person living under different names? 

Is this Emma Louisa Young? 

Glasgow Necropolis

Seated under the massive proportions of a handsome mausoleum erected to the memory of a distinguished citizen of Glasgow, we write the notes for this article on the Necropolis, a burying-place beautified by nature and art. It is a bright morning in January, and the bracing frosty air has quite a pleasant and exhilarating effect. From far down in the valley beneath comes the hum of busy city life, making the solemn stillness here quite a contrast to the active existence below. The view from this elevated situation is picturesque and interesting in the highest degree. Quite a forest of elegant spires, tall chimneys, and handsome erections form prominent objects in the scene. Sweetly sounding above the noise of vehicular traffic, is heard the pleasing chimes of the bells at the Cross, in happy harmony with the feelings of meditation and contemplation that occupy our musing thoughts at this moment.  Although the general aspect of this great city of the dead is pleasing visitors are forcibly reminded of the mutability of all mundane affairs by the various objects of interest around. The multitude of miscellaneous gravestones preach a silent sermon against feelings of pride and vanity, or inordinate ambitious projects. Under the numerous erections, ‘neath the weeping willow or splendid mausoleums lies the remains of departed genius and heroism. Every walk teems with items of weird interest, the memorials on vault and speaking of human greatness in all departments of the world’s business, levelled down here in the romance of death into the comparative obscurity of one common fate and resting place.

‘Dick Swiveller’ Glasgow Necropolis, Glasgow Evening Post, 7 January 1887

 

I only spent a couple of hours at the Glasgow Necropolis, which is nowhere near enough time to fully explore its 37 acres. Glasgow’s premier cemetery is found on the city’s second highest hill at the rear of St Mungo’s cathedral, and has good views of the south of the city. The hilltop is almost treeless the turf studded with large monuments. The biggest of these, a statue of John Knox which stands on top of a 58-foot Doric column, predates the cemetery and was erected by public subscription in 1825 when the site was still Fir Park and the city’s dead were still buried in churchyards and small burial grounds. 

In 1831 John Strang published ‘Necropolis Glasguensis’, advocating the creation of a garden cemetery in Glasgow, to be modelled on Pere Lachaise and built on the site of Fir Park.

It is a melancholy truth, that while the cemeteries of ancient and modern nation have boasted something that has wooed, and still occasionally woos, thither the most cynical of our race. the cineral depots of Scotland and particularly those of Glasgow, have, from their neglected state, fairly banished from their bounds even those in whose bosoms the tender feelings of affection and sympathy hold a paramount sway. Here the chief characteristics of the churchyard are, the noxious weed, the broken tombstone, and the defaced inscription; and hence the sepulchre, instead of proving, as it does elsewhere, either the solemn and affecting shrine of devotion, or the resort and consolation to weeping individuals, is little better than a disgusting charnel-house avoided by general consent, as if infected with a pestilence, and calculated even when entered to call forth rather the feelings of aversion and disgust, than of sympathy and sorrow.

John Strang ‘Necropolis Glasguensis’ 1831

Strang had been born in Glasgow in 1795. The son of a successful wine merchant, the death of his father when he was 14 left him with independent means and the financial means to indulge his love of foreign travel and his literary ambitions. Fluent in French and German his earliest published works were translations of Hoffman and other romantic writers with a bent for fantasy and horror. He also involved himself in the civic life of his home town, eventually becoming City Chamberlain in 1834, a position he held for 30 years. Necropolis Glasguensis is a short work, typical of the garden cemetery movement, which surveys the worldwide history of burial practices, deplores the state into which current funeral practices have sunk and the unhealthy and dialpitated state of churchyards, eulogises Pere Lachaise and argues for a local version of the Parisian cemetery to be built. The Merchants House of Glasgow were already considered opening a cemetery and had even identified Fir Park as a potential site; Strang was already knocking at an open door. The cemetery was opened in 1833, the same year as the Cemetery of All Souls in Kensal Green. Strang is buried in the Necropolis.   

The best entrance to the cemetery is behind St Mungo’s Cathedral where after passing an impressive pair of gates you see three modern memorials, one to still-born children, the second to the Korean War and the third to Glaswegian recipients of the Victoria Cross. To get into the cemetery proper you cross the Bridge of Sighs, which spans the Molendinar Burn, admire the ornate abandoned entrance to what was to have a tunnel through the cemetery (it proved impractical to build it alas) and then you start the stiff climb to the top of the hill. On the way you will pass the grave of William Miller (1810-1872) ‘the laureate of the nursey’ according to his headstone and the author of ‘Wee Willie Winkie’, a nursery rhyme was has steeply declined in popularity since I was a child.

The top of the hill is covered with impressive memorials. Charles Tennant, who died in 1838, is shown, twice lifesize, seated casually in a chair, legs akimbo, arms dangling at his sides in an open necked shirt and a muffler around his neck. Tennant was a chemist who started off his career in weaving, made his fortune coming up with an improved bleaching process for cloth and opened the St Rollox Chemical Works. His great discovery was bleaching powder, Calcium Hypochlorite, the smell of which we are all intensely familiar with, as one of its uses is to treat water in swimming pools, a process which releases chlorine. Next time you are in a swimming pool and you take a lungful of chlorine, remember Charles Tennant.   

Other noteworthy memorials include the marvellous, neo-Norman 1842 Monteath mausoleum, now fenced off with a warning sign announcing 'Danger Keep Out'. Archibald Douglas Monteath (1773-1842) served in the East India Company and is alleged to have ““made his fortune when an elephant carrying precious gems belonging to a Maharajah was captured and ‘relieved’ of its load by him.” (The quote is lifted from the Friends of Glasgow Necropolis website, they don’t give a source for it but do say that it is probably not true. It may have some basis in truth; officials of the East India Company were not averse to robbing the natives…) Then there is the Mughal style Wilson Mausoleum which houses the mortal remains of William Rae Wilson (1772–1849) lawyer, landowner and travel writer, who wrote books on Italy, France, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Germany, Russia, Spain, Sicily, Greece, Turkey, Egypt and Palestine. In this particular case, travel did not broaden the mind, according to the 1900 DNB he was “an upright man, a writer and a distributor of tracts, he was not of a specially tolerant spirit.”

 

The Messalina of the Suburbs; Edith Jessie Thompson (1893-1923) City of London Cemetery

 

“Three soldiers of the Coldstream Guards were walking in Montgomery street. Onegavean opinion in which all concurred. It was the woman, they said; he showed himself a man afterwards.”                                                                       James Joyce ‘Finnegans Wake’ 

 

At around midnight on Tuesday the 3rd October 1922, a married couple Percy and Edith Thompson were walking back to their house on Kensington Gardens from Ilford train station. They had spent the evening in London at the Criterion theatre watching a Ben Travers farce The Dippers. As the couple strolled home arm in arm they were followed by twenty-one-year merchant seaman Frederick Bywaters. In Belgrave Road, less than 200 hundred yards from their house, Bywaters pulled a twelve-inch knife from his coat, broke into a run and, catching up with the Thompsons, stabbed Percy twelve times in a short, frantic and fatal attack.  Most of Percy Thompson’s wounds were superficial but there were three severe neck wounds, one of which severed the carotid artery, sliced open the oesophagus and flooded his stomach with blood.  The scuffle was over in less than a minute. Frederick Bywaters immediately fled the scene leaving Percy Thompson to bleed to death in the arms of his hysterical wife.

Edith Thompson & Frederick Bywaters

Edith Graydon was born on the 25th December 1893, the eldest of 5 children, in Stamford Hill in North London. When she was 6 the family moved out their cramped accommodation to a house in Shakespeare Crescent in the new suburb of Manor Park in East London.  When Edith was eight, Frederick Bywaters was born round the corner in Rectory Road, E12.  The two families grew up together and Frederick became a great friend of one of Edith’s younger brothers. Of course, she would have paid no attention to a small boy 8 years her junior.  Edith left school at 15 and held a variety of jobs in shops and offices until, in 1911, she found work at the fashionable wholesale milliners Carlton & Prior in the Barbican, where she was to remain, a valued and trusted employee, until her death. She met the 19-year-old Percy Thompson a few months after leaving school, shortly before her sixteenth birthday.

Edith’s relationship with the stolid Percy was ambivalent almost from the start. They shared many mutual interests, in music and the theatre and in amateur dramatics but Edith was far livelier and more adventurous. Whilst Percy was a plodder at work and never received promotion, Edith quickly rose from a relatively menial sales job to assistant buyer, acquired passable French and went on sales trips to Paris. But she stuck with Percy, eventually losing her virginity to him on a holiday in Ilfracombe and thereby making it almost a certainty that she would have to marry him.  After a six-year long courtship (incredibly long for the time and quite probably a reflection of her uncertainty about a lifelong commitment to him) the couple finally married in 1916.  Shortly afterwards, with the ignominious threat of conscription hanging over him, Percy enlisted in the army. Within 4 months he had wrangled himself an honourable discharge with ‘suspected’ heart trouble (rumour had it that he had taken to smoking 50 cigarettes a day to induce cardiac palpitations).

Percy’s cowardice contrasted poorly with the much younger Frederick Bywaters eagerness to involve himself in the fight for King and country. By 1917, and still only fifteen he was still too young to enlist in the armed forces. Instead, he spent the spring and summer trying to volunteer for the merchant navy convoys that were being regularly torpedoed by German U boats. His mother blocked his first successful attempt to sign on by withholding parental permission.  Frederick simply lied about his age on his next attempt and in February 1918, after signing a disclaimer that he was accepting a position in the full knowledge of the dangers faced by shipping in war time, he set sail for India in the P & O troop carrier Nellore. For the next three months his mother had no idea where he was. His next voyage was to China. When the war ended Frederick decided to stick with the merchant navy. Following the death of his father from injuries sustained in a gas attack on the Somme, his mother had been forced to sell the house in Rectory Road and buy somewhere cheaper in South London. When Fredrick returned from a trip to China and Japan in early 1920 his family were settled in Upper Norwood. His ship was berthed in East Tilbury, and knowing that he was looking for temporary lodgings somewhere closer to Tilbury than Norwood the Graydon’s suggested he take a spare room at Shakespeare Crescent. It was here that he and Edith met again for the first time since Frederick had been a small boy. For the next seven weeks Frederick met regularly with the Thompson’s at Percy’s in-laws. The two men struck up friendship and Frederick began to take an interest in Edith’s younger sister Avis. After seven weeks he rejoined his ship on a voyage to Bombay and was away from the country for several months.

Frederick, Edith and Percy in the back garden in Ilford

In the summer of 1921 Frederick was back in the country and staying once again with the Graydon’s in Manor Park. The Thompson’s were planning a holiday on the isle of Wight and Edith had insisted on inviting her younger sister Avis. When Frederick showed up Percy fatefully suggested that he join them on the holiday as a foursome would be much more fun than Avis tagging along on her own. Percy was very aware that Avis was infatuated with the handsome young sailor and he seemed determined to play the matchmaker.  In fact, it was during this week on the Isle of Wight that Frederick and Edith first made their mutual interest in each other clear, at least to each other if not to Percy and Avis. The holiday was such a success that Percy invited Frederick to come and lodge with him and Edith at their new house in Kensington Gardens in Ilford.

Within a few days of moving into the Thompson’s home Frederick and Edith became lovers. On the 27th June, Frederick’s 19th birthday, they had the house to themselves as Edith had a day’s leave from her job. As soon as Percy left for work Edith made breakfast for the birthday boy and took it up to his bedroom where she inevitably ended up joining him in bed. Opportunities for sexual encounters would have been limited but the lovers took them whenever they could. Over the following weeks Percy became increasingly suspicious about the relationship between his wife and their young lodger. Freddy showed no desire to find himself a new berth on a ship and lost his former interest in passing boozy nights in local pubs with his host. Instead, he hung aimlessly around the house waiting to dance attendance on Edith when she returned home from work, helping her to set the table for meals, drying the dishes she had washed, and generally fetching and carrying for her. Edith was bright and cheerful with Freddy but irritable and impatient in her husband’s company. Most ominously she shunned his physical attentions. Percy began to grow sullen and resentful. Things came to a head on the August bank holiday. The three were sitting in the back garden, Edith sewing, Freddy reading a book, Percy the newspaper when Edith asks her husband to go into the house and get a pin for her. When he doesn’t jump up, Freddy does and disappears into the house. A furious argument breaks out between husband a wife. It lapses when Freddy reappears but starts again later inside the house. Freddy discretely steps outside to avoid being drawn into the squabble but as soon as he is gone Percy breaks into a tirade about Edith, her sister and her family in general. Goaded Edith screams back and Percy slaps her several times and pushes her backwards into a table. Hearing the fracas Freddy comes racing in back inside and steps between the Thompsons. Edith rushes upstairs but when Percy tries to follow Freddy stop-s him. There is no physical fight, Percy is a coward. He orders Freddy out of the house but Freddy refuses to go and tells Percy that if he ever touches his wife again, he will have him to deal with.  

The relationship between Edith and Freddy is now more or less out in the open as far as Percy is concerned. When Percy continues to insist Freddy moves out, in the end he has to comply. With no income he is also forced to go back to sea. While Freddy is away Edith begins the correspondence with him that would eventually get her hanged. The couple’s clandestine relationship continues whenever Freddy is in the country but when he is away Edith writes to him in candid detail of her daily life. She writes of her visits to the theatre, her flutter on the Derby, and a dinner with a mysterious man from Ilford called Mel, who has realised that Edith is having a sexual relationship with Freddy and therefore thinks it is worthwhile chancing his arm while the sailor is away. She writes of Percy’s sexual advances, her refusal to succumb to them and her husbands plaintive whine “Why aren’t you happy with me? We used to be happy.” She holds Percy’s advances off until 5th December; two days later Edith is putting an abortifacient into her porridge in case the encounter leads to a pregnancy. Percy picks up the wrong bowl and eats the drugged porridge himself. This semi farcical episode provides the germ for a series of recurrent fantasies in which Edith imagines drugging Percy’s tea or mixing ground glass into his porridge. She shares the details of her periods with Freddy, and tells him about is either a miscarriage or a self-administered abortion. The letters have the virtue of honesty, it was this quality of course which so shocked the judge and jury at her trial. What sort of woman would openly discuss her sexual feelings and her periods with a man? It was this unseemly candour which led to Edith, the Ilford milliner, being compared to Messalina, the whorish wife of the emperor Claudius who famously challenged Scylla, Rome’s premier prostitute, to a contest to see who could satisfy most men in a single night.

During the following year Freddy tries to get Edith away from Percy, even going to see him after the husband spots his wife and her ‘sailor boy’ at Ilford Station together. In the row that follows Percy tells Edith that if Bywaters were a man he would his permission to take out his wife. Edith relays this to Freddy who calls at Kensington Gardens to have things out man to man with Percy. He tells Percy that he doesn’t need anyone’s permission to take Edith and suggests that the couple come to an amicable agreement, a separation or a divorce. The humiliated Percy salvages what little dignity he can by digging in his heels and telling Freddy “Well I have got her and will keep her.” The argument between the two men does on for the best part of two hours but Percy refuses to budge although he finally agrees not to hit his wife anymore. All three parties no doubt grew increasingly frustrated until a desperate Freddy decides that there is only one way to resolve the situation; Percy must die. At the couple’s trial Freddy insisted that he had acted alone and that Edith had nothing to do with the murder of her husband. But from those letters the prosecution built a case that Edith, who was 29 and 7 years older than the 21-year-old Freddy, had manipulated, sexually and emotionally, the infatuated younger man. Her letters proved how shameless she was, they proved how she plotted to poison her husband or to kill him with ground glass and when that failed, how she insinuated to the hapless Freddy that he should kill Percy for her, so that they could finally be together. The evidence against Edith was scanty to say the least and one would hope that no modern jury would convict her on the basis of it.    

Justice was much swifter in the 1920’s than it is today. By the 6th December 1922 Frederick Bywaters and Edith Thompson were both on trial for murder at the Old Bailey.  On the 9th January 1923, little more than 3 months after the murder Bywaters was executed at Pentonville Prison and Thompson at Holloway.  The trial and execution generated a remarkable amount of public interest. People queued from midnight in an unusually cold winter to ensure a place in the public gallery at the court and the newspapers devoted dozens of pages of close print to the affair. The leader writer of The Times was at a loss to understand the attention given to a ‘simple and sordid case’ by the British public in ‘a trial which presented really no features of romance and which provided none of the horrors that appeal to a morbid mind.’ He went on to concede that there were elements of the crime passionnel, ‘but that extenuating term has never received a welcome in this country.’   No welcome from the legal establishment perhaps but from the British public it was another matter. Within a matter of days of the verdict prurience had turned to pity and public opinion swung firmly behind the condemned couple (though it was Bywaters that initially attracted the lion’s share of sympathy).  The Daily Sketch ran a campaign to save the pair from the hangman. On the day following the launch of the campaign the newspaper received 10,000 letters of support in the first post and a long queue to sign a petition had formed by midmorning from the lobby of its offices, out into the street and then 500 yards along the pavements. The magistrate who had committed Bywaters to trial wrote to the Home Office pleading for the boy’s life. He was followed by dozens of other worthies as the campaign gathered pace. Eventually the Daily Sketch collected over a million signatures in support of a reprieve, the largest ever petition in support of a condemned prisoner. 

The 82-year-old Thomas Hardy, who had read Edith Thompson’s correspondence and was struck by her looks, produced the distinctly unsympathetic poem ‘On the Portrait of a Woman about to be Hanged’ when he learned that she was to be executed.   In Paris James Joyce followed the case closely in the British newspapers and interpolated several passages from them into his notes for Finnegans Wake.  In the years that followed the case continued to exert a fascination that has never gone away. A score of novels, influenced to some degree by the case, appeared over the next 20 years including Dorothy L. Sayers ‘The Documents In The Case,’ E.M. Delafield’s ‘The Messalina Of The Suburbs’ and F. Tennyson Jesse’s ‘A Pin To See The Peepshow.’  The case was covered in the Notable British Trials series, Alfred Hitchcock later toyed with the idea of basing a film on it and by the time George Orwell came to write ‘The Decline of the English Murder’ for the Tribune in 1946 he could cite it as a classic example of the great British murder perpetrated, it seemed, purely for the delectation of the readers of the News of the World.  Following the Second World War, Orwell notwithstanding, Thompson and Bywaters seem to largely disappear from public consciousness (though the poet Kathleen Raine who was 13 at the time of the trial and living in Ilford, could declare in her 1974 autobiography that ‘Edith Thompson c’est moi’). Curiosity about domestic murders was gradually being replaced by an obsession with the phenomenon of serial killers. In the last thirty years however there has been a revival of interest beginning with the publication of Rene Weis’s account of the affair, ‘Criminal Justice’ in 1988. PD James’ discussed the case at length in 1994’s ‘The Murder Room’, the same year that Shelagh Stephenson’s radio play ‘Darling Peidi’ was broadcast. Since then Jill Dawson published the well-received novel ‘fred & edie’, and a feature film ‘Another Life’ dramatising the events that led up to the murder was released in 2001. There have been further books, notably by Laura Thompson and Edith’s letters have also been published in full. 

Following her execution Edith was buried in an unmarked grave within the grounds of Holloway Prison. Her parents expressed a wish for her to be buried with them but this was not possible for an executed prisoner. In 1971 the prison was redeveloped and the 5 bodies of executed women (including Rith Ellis) were exhumed. Ruth Ellis was buried elsewhere but the families of the other four executed women were not informed. Edith and the three other women were moved in secret and reinterred at Brookwood Cemetery.  Since 2000 Edith’s family and the author Rene Weiss campaigned to have her body moved from Brookwood to her parent’s grave in the City of London cemetery. On Tuesday 20th November 2018 Edith was exhumed from Brookwood and taken by private ambulance to an undertakers in Kingston. On the 22nd her body was brought to the City of London cemetery where a memorial service was held in the Anglican Chapel before Edith was reburied in her parent’s grave.

Death from a Broken Heart; Baron Farkas Kemény. (1797–1852) Kensal Green Cemetery

 

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,

Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.

                                                                                   Lord Byron. Don Juan, XI, st. 60

Byron’s sardonic couplet on the death of Keats was prompted by Leigh Hunt’s claim that a critical review of ‘Endymion’, in the Quarterly Review, was responsible for the poet’s death. Byron may have found it ludicrous that wounded amour-propre could prove fatal but far more robust temperaments than the author of an ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ have succumbed to assaults on their self-esteem. Take the Baron Farkas Kemény, a man of mature years, a man of the world, battle hardened and stoical in the face of adversity, who had lost his fortune and his place in society fighting for the liberation his country and now lived in exile, in poverty, in London. Kemény, who had once, at the battle for Piski Bridge, held off a superior force of 15,000 Imperial Austrian troops with a ragtail regiment of 1100 irregular soldiers and 100 Hussars, and who had, more than once, saved the life of his commanding officer, General Józef Bem, was dealt his fatal blow by an article in the Daily News casting aspersions upon his honour and financial integrity. The offending article, an open letter written by a supposed friend of Hungary, the lawyer and political theorist Joshua Toulmin Smith, questioned what Kemény had done with £520, raised by charity and provided to him for the relief of fellow Hungarian refugees. Reading the piece at his lodgings in Foley Place, Fitzrovia, the Baron had collapsed into the arms of his secretary, begging him to call for assistance. By the time help was summoned, he was already dead. At the inquest the coroner Thomas Wakely said that he had never seen “a clearer case in which a poor creature had died of a broken heart”, his life it seems, like Keats’, also snuffed out by an article. 

The Hungarian patriot is buried at Kensal Green where I had stumbled across his grave whilst exploring an out of the way area of the cemetery. The headstone was odd, a red granite upright that looked modern but had the epitaph;

To the Memory
of
Baron W. Kemény
Colonel in the Hungarian army
1848 and 1849.
He lived a Patriot, died an Exile
in 1852, aged 56.
Erected by his friends
LLMRZ

If, as the inscription claimed, the headstone was erected by his friends then it had to be at least 150 years old. But that didn’t seem right, it was too modern looking. The anomaly made the Baron and his headstone stick in my memory, so that when I received an enquiry about the location of the grave from a cemetery pilgrim in Romania earlier this year, I still remembered Kemény and where in the cemetery he was. My pilgrim was from the Szeklerland, an area of Transylvania that has, dictated by the whims of history, been ruled alternatively by Hungary and Romania for the last 100 years and is still predominantly populated by ethnic Hungarians. She is a highly successful business woman and, she said, a distant descendant of the Baron. She was planning to come to England to visit his final resting place. As I couldn’t be there on the planned day of the visit I provided maps and verbal instructions on how to find the grave but the area is overgrown and the headstone cunningly hidden in a clearing amongst trees and shrubs and not really visible from the paths. On the day the maps helped locate the general area but the grave itself proved to be frustratingly elusive. At the point where the pilgrim’s party were about to give up a saviour appeared in the form of one of the General Cemetery Company’s ground staff.

“Are you looking for a Hungarian hero?” he asked them, apparently telepathic, and when they said yes, showed them the way to the Baron’s headstone, talking non-stop on the way about the cemetery and history, speaking so rapidly they barely understood a word.  Nevertheless they were extremely grateful. The cemetery pilgrim especially; “I have done this big trip to London, just because I've been feeling for a while that I have to do it,” she told me, “I have done it for the peace of my soul.” Some peoples need to connect with the past, to seek out the dead, to stand on the patch of earth where their body was buried 200 years ago, is so strong that they will travel hundred, even thousands of miles to do it, often at great inconvenience to themselves. And in many cases the end of the journey is nothing remarkable, an overgrown graveyard, a modest memorial, an illegible inscription, marking the place where the deceased were lowered into the earth all those years ago. I have done it myself; I jumped at the chance to visit Geneva a couple of years ago when the only thing that interested me in the city of clocks and conventions was the grave of Jorge Luis Borges and I left my dying father’s bedside on a snow bound winters morning to go to the grave of Ian Curtis.

The Battle of Piski by Wilhelm Hahn

 

Baron Farkas Kemény was born in 1797 in Transylvania (then still part of the Hapsburg Empire), the descendant of an old Hungarian noble family who had originally been granted their titles and estates by the legendary Magyar ruler Árpád in the late 9th century.  His family had been prominent in the Hungarian struggles against the Turks and after completing his education at the Protestant High-school in Great Enyad, the Baron followed family tradition by joining the army, becoming an officer in the 8th regiment of Kienmoyer Hussars, and taking part in the Napoleonic Wars. In his Sketches in Remembrance of the Hungarian Struggle for Independence published in 1853, J. Constantin  Kastner says that although the Baron was “in the Austrian service, he was nevertheless a true Hungarian in heart; and upon advancing in years, his conviction grew stronger and stronger, that the Austrian army was nothing but a machine in the hands of an arbitrary power, only employed to crush constitutional life and liberty”. In 1825 he resigned from military service and retired for a while to his estates in the Transylvanian countryside. Nine years later he came out of retirement to enter into politics; in 1834 he was returned as a radical deputy to the Transylvania Diet. He was a supporter of the reforms made in April 1848 when Hungary became the third country in Europe to implement democratic parliamentary elections (after revolutionary France in 1791 and conservative Belgium in 1831). Filled with nationalistic zeal the Transylvanian Diet voted in May to reunite their territory with Hungary; when the Austrian Emperor (and King of Hungary) Franz Joseph I revoked the April reforms the Transylvanians sided with Hungary in the revolutionary war that broke out and Baron Kemény immediately enlisted on the side of the rebels. 

The Baron fought under General Józef Bem who had been entrusted by the Hungarian leader, Lajos Kossuth, with the defence of Transylvania. The Baron’s most glorious exploit was the defence of the Bridge at Piski to help cover the retreat of the main army after a defeat at Viz-Akna. Bem told his colonel "the bridge of Piski is Transylvania herself; if the bridge is lost, Transylvania is lost!" Facing Austrians of 15,000 the Baron, with 1,100 irregular foot soldiers, 100 hussars, and just 7 guns, fought for 36 hours without moving his position. He then ordered a charge of bayonets and, astounded at seeing the Austrians retreat, sent two companies of infantry to try and outflank them. The panicking Austrians abandoned their ammunition wagons and then raised the white flag. Assuming the enemy was ready to surrender the Baron rode out to them and ordered them to lay down their arms. The Austrians demanded to know to whom they were talking and the Baron told them "I am General Bem!" Instead of surrendering the Austrian troops surrounded the Baron and were about to take him prisoner. The baron had other ideas however, he unsheathed his sword and cut a way through the ranks of Imperial soldiers and succeeded in making it back to his own lines, where he gave the order to renew the assault on the Austrians. The Baron and his irregulars held the bridge until General Bem arrived with reinforcements.   

The battle of Piski by Theodor Breitwieser

As well as compiling the Sketches, J. Constantin  Kastner also commissioned the artist Wilhelm Hahn to produce a drawing of the defence of the bridge at Piski and Day & Son, ‘lithographers to the  Queen’ to print it. Kastner was personally acquainted with Kemény and so we can assume that the diminutive Colonel standing on top of one of the bridge piers urging on his men, is a reasonable likeness of the Baron. As well as his relatively short stature we are also struck by the Baron’s age, he is clearly a man well into his fifties. Bushy eyebrowed with a walrus moustache, his eyes are bagged with exhaustion yet he holds out his unsheathed sabre and points his men forward. He also ignores the grenade exploding at his feet.  His troops are the epitome of burgher solidity; if it weren’t for the bandolier style straps of their rucksacks, the water bottles and rifles, they would look like they had just finished off a day in the office of the Town Hall or the bank.  Day & Son must have had other Hungarian connections  because in 1861 they printed a run of bank notes for Kossuth who was still living in exile but trying to establish a Hungarian currency. The Imperial Government of Austria took both Kossuth and Day & Son to court accused of levying financial war upon the emperor. The lithographers were ordered to surrender the notes to the bank of England, where they were burnt.    

Following the ultimate failure of the 1848-49 War of Independence the Baron went into exile, first in Paris and then in London, where Kossuth left him in charge of the Hungarian refugees after his triumphant visit to England in October and November 1851. As soon as Kossuth had gone the Baron found himself drawn into a row about money raised by the Hungarian committee. When the baron told the committee that many refugees were still in want the lawyer and writer Joshua Toulmin Smith, who was a member of the committee, was sceptical.  Dudley Coutts Stuart, an MP and the son of the Marquess of Bute, who was the President of the Committee, would not entertain Toulmin Smith’s doubts and so the lawyer placed them before the public in the form of an open letter to the Daily News which named Kemeny and could be read as implying that he had been completely honest. Coutts Stuart responded on behalf of the committee and gave the Baron his full backing as well as refuting Toulmin Smith’s allegations. But the war of words rumbled on, with further letters in the newspapers. On Monday the 5th January the Baron was steeling himself to read the latest salvo from Toulmin Smith when he suffered a fatal heart attack. He was wisely reported by the newspapers as being 63 years old at the time of death but according to his headstone he was only 56.  The Sun (London) of Friday 09 January gave a full account of the inquest into the Baron’s death;

DEATH OF AN HUNGARIAN REFUGEE.

Yesterday an inquest held before Mr. T. Wakley, M.P., and a respectable jury, at the Yorkshire Grey Tavern, Foley -place, Marylebone, on view of the body of the Baron Farkas Kemeny, aged 63, formerly a colonel in the Hungarian service, whose death occurred under the awful and melancholy circumstances subjoined. The deceased, who had distinguished himself as a soldier, had fought under General Bem, and once, while defending the bridge of Piske, in Transylvania, with 2,000 men and seven guns, is said to have defeated 14,000 Austrians and 30 guns.

Mr. John Prohatzki, proprietor of the Hungarian fur depot, No. 12, Foley place, stated that the deceased Baron had for about twelve months occupied apartments in his house, in the general enjoyment of good health and spirits. Between ten and eleven o'clock on Monday morning last deceased returned Lome from posting a letter, and joining witness in his countinghouse, conversed with him, but not in his usual manner, there seeming to be something on his mind. Shortly afterwards deceased's secretary entered the passage, and deceased followed him up stairs, but scarcely had five minutes elapsed before the secretary came running to witness saying, "The baron has fainted." Witness returned with him, and found the deceased lying on the drawing-room floor insensible. Having procured some water to bathe his face and temples, he sent his wife for Mr. Geldard, a surgeon in the neighbourhood, who immediately atter his arrival pronounced him to be dead. The deceased had lately appeared very dull.

Sigismund Vekey stated that he was secretary to the late baron, who had latterly been much excited by letters appearing in the public newspapers, which he considered personal to himself, and injurious to the Hungarian cause, signed "Toulmin Smith." On Sunday afternoon last he went to Highgate, with the baron's knowledge and approval, to see Mr. Smith, and point out the mischief of such communications, when that gentleman said that he should pursue the theme, but not so much against the baron as against the Hungarians, and on his return to town in the evening he visited the deceased, and repeated the conversation. On Monday morning about ten o'clock he went to the deceased's, and on first seeing him saw that he was more excited than he had ever before noticed. The baron quickly asked him if any articles appeared against him in that day's papers, to which he replied, "Yes, but no so strongly;" and the deceased, who stood before him, rejoined, "Read it." Having the Daily News with him, in which a letter from Mr. Smith was inserted as an advertisement, and addressed to the editor, he commenced reading, but had not proceeded far before the deceased fell forward on his (witness's) breast, and from thence on the floor, exclaiming, "Oh, call for assistance." Being greatly alarmed, he immediately fetched the list witness, by whom what further transpired has been explained.

Mr. John Geldard, surgeon, No. 34, Great Portland street, said that he was called to attend the deceased, who seemed in a fainting state. He endeavoured to administer some stimulants, when deceased gasped once and expired. He had since made a post mortem examination of the body, and found the brain sound, but slightly congested. There was no effusion in the membranes or ventricles, and no disease whatever existed. The lungs were healthy, and there was no extravasation or effusion of the pleura. In the pericardium he found 1 ½ oz. of coagulated blood, which had escaped from the heart through a rupture in that organ, both ventricles and the valves of which, however, were in a perfectly healthy state. Death had resulted from the rupture of the heart.

The CORONER remarked that to him there never appeared a clearer case in which a poor creature had died of a broken heart than that, and which verdict, had he been one of the jury, he should have felt bound to return. The deceased was anxiously listening to what was being read to him by his secretary, fearing and expecting what might be presently said applying to himself, his heart all the time beating violently, and making powerful efforts to get through its bonds, till at length it swelled and burst. He wished Mr. Smith had been present, although he could not be blamed for deceased's death, for thank God, the press of England was free, and he hoped never to see it otherwise; yet, although persons could write what they thought proper, they were liable if they violated the law. The jury, after some consultation, having unanimously expressed an opinion that the primary cause of deceased's death was a broken heart, returned the following verdict:—" That the deceased died from the mortal effects of a rupture of the heart, and the jurors further say that the said rupture was caused by the sudden emotion of his mind by the reading of part of a letter which appeared in the Daily News of the 5th inst.

Toulmin Smith's fatal letter to the Daily News

The Baron was buried in Kensal Green on Sunday the 11th January in a grave paid for by Dudley Coutts Stuart. This account of the funeral is from the Morning Advertiser of Monday 12 January 1852;

FUNERAL OF THE GALLANT COLONEL BARON KEMENY,

At three o’clock yesterday the mortal remains of the brave, chivalrous, and generous Baron Kemeny, President of the Hungarians, were deposited in their last resting place, Kensall-green Cemetery. Lord Dudley Stuart, M.P., Count L. Vay, General Vettes De Doggensfisk-Vickovits (late Minister of Hungary), Colonel Count Paul Esterhazy, Colonel Gaal, Captains Nicoll, Kinizky and Nagg, Merrini (late President of the Roman Republic), Professor Newman, and Messrs. Nicholay, John Wilson, Willow, &c., joined the funeral cortege, which left deceased’s residence at one o’clock, in the following order: —Mutes, the hearse, drawn by four horses, containing the coffin, on which were placed deceased’s sword and cocked bat; two mourning carriages, in which were Hungarian officers and their female relatives. Lord Dudley Stuart’s carriage, and another private carriage. Hungarian refugees two and two, each wearing crape weeper on the arm. Italians, Poles, Germans, French, and English, in similar order, the Notting-hill Reform Association, and other similar associations, bringing up the rear. At the cemetery the funeral service was solemnly performed by the chaplain, and upon the coffin being lowered into the grave Dr. Roney delivered an eloquent and soul-stirring oration, in which he touched upon the late Hungarian straggle, and vividly described the prominent part which the illustrious deceased took in that struggle. The orator stated that the baron boasted of a long line of noble ancestry celebrated for their chivalry, gallantry, and patriotism. His grandfather had been Regent of Hungary, and the baron having entered the army very early distinguished himself in the wars against Napoleon, during 1813, and the two successive years. Subsequently and during the Hungarian struggle he repeatedly displayed on the field of battle his consummate skill and tact as commanding officer, but on no occasion more gloriously than when with 3,000 men and 7 cannons he took and defended the bridge of Piske against 14,000 Austrians, and a park of artillery of 30 guns. But he was no less distinguished for his benevolence and generosity than he was for his gallantry, as was proved from the fact of his having died penniless through his liberality to his compatriots in exile. At the close of the address deceased’s friends took a last look the coffin, and slowly and mournfully retired.

“Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not word of sorrow.
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead.
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.” 

Toulmin Smith did not attend the funeral or probably ever mention the Baron’s name again. The headstone that stands on the grave is a replacement that was put up in 2001, by who I am not sure. The inscription is a copy of the original epitaph including the statement that it was erected by the Baron’s friends LLMRZ. These friends were Mrs. Lendvay-Latkoczy, the actress wife of Martin Lendvay a celebrated Hungarian actor, Jácint János Rónay, a Hungarian bishop and writer, and János Czetz, a Hungarian general who later lived in Argentina and formed the first national military academy there.  Meyer and  Zahnsdorf were London businessmen of Hungarian origin, Meyer was a furrier and  Zahnsdorf a jeweller.