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Re-Tellings of the Watts Scandal I have decided to create a collection of these short
re-tellings of the Watts scandal that I have found. Some of them have come from
rather obscure and unexpected sources such as insurance company journals. They are full of conjecture, opinion,
unsourced assertions of fact, errors, name-dropping of Victorian celebrities
probably completely unconnected to events, slanderous slights, and pure catty
speculation. They are, in short, the stuff of rumor that you would expect to
accompany a scandal. I present these
narratives here for the benefit of any other scholars who might wish to
re-trace my footsteps at some future time. There are other versions of the scandal available. However these are either much longer, more
easily accessed, or have already been referenced by multiple authors writing
about Watts. The stories here are presented in chronological order of
publication so the reader can get some idea of how much the events of the Watts
scandal were/were not distorted by the passing of time. --- The Forgeries of Walter Watts It is an old adage that nothing is ever done for the last
time without exciting a feeling of melancholy. It potently possessed a man,
who, on a wild blowing March afternoon in 1850, sat in the dim-lighted green
room of the Olympic, which, as its lessee, he had opened scarely three months before. He was gazing on a locket containing the
portrait of a pretty, black-eyed woman.
The roar of the wind, now and again, stirred him from reverie.
Everything around was dismal and funereal, like the spirits of the solitary
inmate of the chamber. Tumbled
playbills, papers and books in confusion, dusty mirrors and settees, rows of
empty champagne bottles, vases of faded flowers, silence and solitude, all
gruesomely contrasted with the bouquets, bright eyes, alluring lips,
picturesque costumes, rippling laughter, and light from soft refulgent lamps,
such as nightly fed and flattered his voluptuous heart not so long before. The man’s fortunes had collapsed like a house
of cards. Moreover, he speculated
whether Nemesis in the shape of a policeman might not be waiting for him on the
footway in Wych street. Suddenly Mr. Walter Watts drew a scented cambric from his
superfine, blue paletot, touched it here and there with dainty fingers as he
used it for the glossy Lincoln and Bennett, and then softly summoned someone by
name. It was a graceful, aristocratic
youth who bowed with an engaging air.
“You were right about the locket. It was in the secret drawer. We must
say farewell to each other. I’m glad all is going well with you. Your letter
yesterday was gentlemanly and kind in every way. Anything I ever did for you
has been well repaid by your attention. On no account send to me unless I
write. Just call me a cab, and say I want to be taken to Skinner-street,
Snow-hill.” As Mr. Watts, fair-haired and dapper, genial and courteous,
and drawing on an exquisite lavender glove, was whirled away, the youth could
not help recalling the origin of their acquaintance. It had begun not far from
the spot where the ex-lessee of the Olympic had tendered a pleasant valedictory
nod. Twelve months previous, the youth, having quarreled with a relation and a
private tutor, took himself off, and became almost penniless. One evening, by the Olympic (the theatre,
burned down in 1849), a gentleman dropped a pocketbook, and, unconscious of the
loss, was walking hastily away. It was
Mr. Walter Watts, who, profuse of thanks to the youth for restoring the
property, entered into conversation, and became a very generous friend. Although the youth saw him several times
after parting on the March afternoon, stern despotic circumstances forbade any
further communication between them. It was in the year 1848 that the name of Walter Watts began
to circulate in theatrical circles. It became known that he had advanced a
thousand pounds for Mrs. Warner to open the Marylebone Theatre, where she
produced plays of Shakespeare and those of writers of his school with the
efficiency and elegance that had distinguished her co-management at Sadler’s
Wells with Phelps. George Vining was
introduced to the Portman Market playgoers as Claude Melnotte and revivals
given of Beaumont and Fletcher’s “Scornful Lady” and “Double Marriage.” But even with the attraction later of the
celebrated Macready in a round of characters, the speculation proved a failure. Yet Mr. Watts was not to be daunted. A few months subsequently his name appeared
on the bills as lessee and he seemed desirous of emulating the taste and
enterprise of Webster at Adephi, and Maddox at the Princess’s. Despite the theatre being situated in a plebian
locality and a building of somewhat mean construction, the fresh manager
determined to go ahead. Prices were raised, and a host of star engagements
secured. Amongst others appearing were
the Keelys, Buckstone and Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and T.P. Cooke. Afterwards the Americans, Mrs. Mowatt and E.
L. Davenport, acted in a number of tragedies and comedies, and in the ladies
own romantic play of “Armand, or the Peer and the Peasant.” Those connected with theatrical circles began to rub their
eyes and ask in an undertone, “Who was Mr. Walter Watts?” It was a difficult
question to answer. Detractors replied that he was only a junior clerk in the
Globe Insurance Office. Quidnuncs looked mysterious, and whispered that the
Marylebone lessee was a turfite of the most spirited and brilliant quality and
had made glorious winnings at Epsom and the other great historic races. Two things were certain about Watts’ doings. He had the
purse of a prince and the temper of a prodigal. If he entertained dramatic
authors and the leading performers of his establishment, the spread came from
Gunter’s. His turnout for the Derby in 1849 was a marvel for drag, steeds,
viands and liquors. Watts, too, was an
especial favorite with the fair sex, and lavishly showered his bounties on them. He had an elegant residence, Neville Lodge,
St. John’s-wood, that, under its gay and liberal-handed host, became famous for
Sunday night re-unions. He also had
apartments in Tavistock-street, and a tale got afloat about him that a message
having been sent there, a servant girl by mistake announced Mr. Watts not his
messenger, who on entering found himself embraced by a lady attired as a
Bacchante to give éclat to her
lover’s visit. Mrs. Mowatt, an accomplished authoress as well as actress, petite, with luxurious hair and speaking
eyes, quite the perfection of the American belle, and who could “twang the
lyre” with the same grace and sentiment that she represented Viola and
Rosalind, won great esteem from Watts. He
sent the lady’s husband, an invalid, on a voyage to Trinadad; and on the
occasion of Mrs. Mowatt’s benefit in January of 1849, presented her with a
silver vase lined with gold, surmounted by a statuette of Shakespeare. On the complaint, too, that star actresses
had not elegant accommodation behind the scenes, Watts declared to Mrs. Mowatt
that he would speedily arrange such a desideratum, and with enough taste and
luxurious comfort for it to become the talk of theatrical London. Decorator and upholsterer went to work in a
small apartment partitioned off from the green room. The carpet represented roses reposing on a
bed of moss, and the walls panels of wreaths and bouquets, while from the
ceiling hung ornaments in the form of lilies for lighting purposes. Flower pieces by Bartholomew were among the
pictorial adornments, and four mirrors reflected the furniture of pale blue
satin and gold. Watts was greatly
delighted when one evening, after conducting a visitor behind the scenes, the
journalist remarked, “you are quite the Sardanapalus of theatrical
administrators.” It was true in more
senses than one. But the lessee of the Marylebone was contemplating fresh and
even more splendid achievements. In
March 1849, the Olympic in Wych street, reared by the pluck and enterprise of
Philip Astley, was totally destroyed by fire.
It was not long before it became known that a new theatre would rise on
the ashes of its predecessor, while at the same time it grew an open secret of
Watts being its lessee and manager.
Engagements were mad with some of the most able histrions of the
period. Mr. and Mrs. Wigan, Mrs.
Seymour, Messrs. Marston, Ryder, G.V. Brooke, E.L. Davenport, and, of course,
Mrs. Mowat, and a host of other most capable
actors and actresses. Watts also
arranged with Jerrold for the “Spendthrift,” Westand Marstand for his “Philip
of France,” and “Leigh Hunt for “Lover’s Amazements,” pieces never before
acted, while commissions were given to other well-known playwrights. Indeed, it was bruited that Watts intended to
monopolize all the talent he could, both literary and histrionic, and by such a
scale of remuneration that some thought the most prosperous playhouse could
ill-support. A dark event marked the end of Watts’ managerial reign at
Paddington. He gave a splendid banquet
on the Marylebone boards on taking leave of the theatre. The stage, decorated
with banners and flowers, was set out as a ball-room. A number of journalists and other invited
guests joined the staff on the occasion and “all went merry as a marriage bell.” There were quadrilles and waltzes before
supper, and a cotillion, and a country dance afterwards. Albert Smith told comic stories galore,
Herbert and Penson sang, and murmurs of joviality and enjoyment arose on every
side. Suddenly however, a loud shriek
rent the air, and cloud of flame sped from the footlights towards the dais at
the back. Above the fiery cloud rose the
arms of a terror-stricken ballerina, whose muslin skirts had ignited at the
jets of gas. A panic ensued. Some rushed
towards the stage door; the men who remained uttered sounds of confusion and
horror, while women went into hysterics or coma. Amidst the tragic tumult, making itself audible
above everything was the voice of the fire-enveloped girl calling in agonized
tones for help. Mrs. Renfrew, a wardrobe
woman, at the risk of her own life, and with rare presence of mind, caught the pitiable
object in her arms, threw the poor creature on the stage, and smothered the
fire, after being fearfully burnt on the face and arms. It was a sorry finale to such a gala. The second Olympic Theatre opened on Boxing Night,
1849. During the time it remained under
Watts’ management, the same kind of entertainment was given as had been
presented at the Marylebone. There were Shakespearean revivals –G.V. Brooke
playing Othello and Shylock. Early in January Mrs. Mowatt’s “Fashion,” first
played in New York, underwent a London ordeal, and towards the end of the month
Oxenford’s translation of Thomas Corneille’s “Ariadne” had representation, the
American actress playing the title part.
The tragedy was not attractive, no more than G.H. Lewes’s “Noble Heart,”
played for the first time on February 18th. Brooke sustained the principal
character. Early in March, the theatre
closed its doors without warning or explanation. There was but a single interrogation – “Where
was Mr. Walter Watts?” The mystery found solution in the newspapers. On the morning after we saw him in the
Olympic green room, Watts, in the custody of Daniel Forester, was brought us
before Alderman Gibbs, at the Mansion House, charged with having stolen and
carried away an order for the payment of 1400, and a piece of paper of the
value of a penny, the property of the Globe Insurance Company. Freshfield prosecuted, and Bodkin, instructed
by Wontner, attorney of Skinner Street, Snow-Hill, appeared for the
prisoner. It transpired that Watts was a
clerk in the Globe office, and that he had been long tampering with orders and
cheques passing through his hands. All his papers had been sealed up by order
of the deputy chairman, and it came out that Watts had been away from his duties
since March 5th. Bodkin stated his client courted inquiry, and had
never even thought of keeping away, as proved by his voluntarily meeting
Forester the preceding afternoon at Mr. Wontner’s. The accused man underwent remand several times. On each of these occasions the evidence put
in explained several points in Watts’ history, and likewise brought facts into
prominence, leaving no doubt, that he had been guilty of a series of gigantic
and cleverly-devised frauds. A painful
circumstance in connection with the case was the position of the defendant’s
father, a cashier in the employ of the company, but who was wholly exonerated
from the slightest knowledge of his son’s defalcations. They probably extended over a lengthy period
amounting as the embezzlement did to quite £80000. Watts had held his
clerkship about ten years, and it was never ascertained that he had
accomplices. Tite, the deputy chairman,
had remonstrated with him for getting mixed up with theatrical speculations. On Friday, May 10th, 1850, Watts was tried at the
Old Bailey before Baron Alderson and Justice Cresswell. The indictments had numerous counts and it
appeared the prisoner had never been in any higher capacity in connection with
the company than that of an assistant clerk in the accountant’s office. But Watts’ had two shares in the company, one
of which he purchased from Maddison Morton, who wrote two or three pieces for
the prisoner when lessee of the Marylebone.
Watts labored under the impression that being a shareholder, would
greatly influence the verdict in his favor.
Alexander Cockburn, retained for the defense, also made a striking
feature of this fact. In a singularly
spirited address, Cockburn contended that inasmuch as the prisoner held those
shares he was a partner in the company, and therefore could not steal his own
property. There was even a note of
uncertainty in the summing up of the judge and the jury, after deliberating for
an hour returned a verdict of guilty on the count of stealing the piece of paper. Yet the sentence was deferred. A point of law was raised and argued before a Court of
Criminal Appeal. It was contended that
Watts should not only be found guilty for having stolen the piece of paper, but
for all his dishonesty. The
Attorney-General had several other counts ready at hand; so on Saturday morning
July 13, Watts was put in the dock to receive his sentence. Baron Alderson, Justice Patterson, and
Justice Talfourd were on the Bench. The
prisoner’s confinement had told terribly on him physically, and he looked the ghost
merely of Walter Watts who had figuratively floated in champagne six months
before, and often in the most jaunty style had tossed a yellow-boy to a cabby
for a ten minutes ride in the Strand.
His fair locks were no longer trim and glossy from the artistic irons
and brush of Mr. Wilson, and the culprit wore an air of collapse and weariness. He was sentenced to ten years’
transportation. His deportment in the
dock was quiet and firm, but his eyes closed for a moment on hearing the
sentence. It was Sunday morning. It might have been half-past three or
a quarter to four o’clock. Not a
foot-fall echoed through the white-washed walls and corridors of Newgate. Even the death-like silence of the prison
appeared intensified by the twitter of sparrows in the yards. Summer light, grey blue in colour, streamed
through narrow windows and loop-holes.
The shadow of iron bars fell on the pavement of one of the long
passages. A door opened noiselessly, and
a man’s face peered out with caution. It
grew ashey pale, and the eyes waxed, wild with terror as they fixed themselves
on a ghastly spectacle. It was the body
of Walter Watts, stark and stiff, with staring eyes, hanging by the neck from a
cord obtained from the sacking of his bed which he had left hours before. The suicide’s feet were tied together with a silk
handkerchief, and a locket was suspended from his neck. The late forger’s fellow-prisoner sounded an
alarm. When the doctor knelt by the corpse stretched on the stone flags, that
medical worthy declared life to have been extinct some time. The laxity and stupidity of those under whom Watts worked, alone made his voluptuous and roguish career possible. Rascals, like heroes, cannot flourish without opportunity, and the lessee of the Marylebone and Olympic found his in an easy-going board of assurance directors. Penal servitude not holding out the faintest prospect of Clicquot and the caresses of syerns in dainty book muslin, luxuries for which Watts chiefly lived, the next best thing was oblivion, which he found by a short if gruesome road. -- L.V. Gazette “The Forgeries of Walter Watts,” The Press, Volume XLIX, Issue 8322, November 1892
Respecting Mr. Walter Watts, there is a tragical story which
bears its own lesson. Mr. Watts was a clerk in the Globe Insurance Office, and
filled up his leisure hours by running a theatre. He kept a choice villa in
Alpha Road, St. John’s Wood, and had a lady actress to assist him in running
that. One day a cheque with a forged signatures was discovered in his temporary
absence at the office, and in a short time he was standing at the Old Bailey,
in that terrible iron spiked compartment with subterranean stairs in its floor,
where many unhappy wretches have stood before and since. Mr. Alexander Cockburn
was his counsel, and did his best to clear him from the imputation that he had
stolen and forged away £80,000, but it was unavailing. Twelve gentlemen, sitting
in another and more comfortable compartment, declined to believe the story of
the future Lord Chief Justice of England, and Mr. Walter Watts was sentenced to
10 years’ transportation. He was passing the time in Newgate waiting for a ship
to convey himself and other involuntary emigrants to Tasmania, when one
beautiful day in July the warder went into his small apartment and found Mr.
Walter Watts suspended from the iron work of his window, dead, dead. Mr. Walter
Watts had resigned the management of the unlucky Marylebone to take the
management of a theatre more unlucky and ill-starred still – the unfortunate,
the doomed Olympic. Unfortunate as the managers generally of these houses have
been, Mr. Walter Watts’ career was the most unfortunate, tragical and dramatic. --Tawse, Geo. “Mrs.
Kendal’s First Appearance on the London Stage.” The Theatre, January 2, 1888, page 35. (in a footnote)
---
The author of Box and Cox was Maddison Morton, who unintentionally
was connected with as tragic asn as curious a story as is to be found in the
history of the English stage. Morton mad
a good deal of money out of Box and Cox and invested some of it in the purchase
of two £50
shares in the Globe Insurance Company.
Sometime after, being pressed for money,
he determined to sell the shares,
and chancing to meet in the street Walter Watts, a dandified, dressy little man
with theatrical tastes, who, Morton knew, was a clerk in the Globe, he
suggested that Watts should purchase the shares, which Watts did. Whatever may
have been in Watts mind at the time, it is clear that Morton had not the
slightest idea of the extraordinary legal issue to which the sale of these two
shares led.
Neither the campaign nor the “beautiful Mrs. Mowatt” was a
success. Watts relinquished the
Marylebone and took the Olympic, in which he spent a small fortune. Suddenly the sword of Damocles which had been
hanging over the dressy and genial little man fell. He was arrested on a charge of having robbed
the Insurance Company with which he was connected for 80,000! How he contrived
to make use of his position to do this does not here matter. What is of consequence is the two shares he
bought of Maddison Morton. He contended that as he was a shareholder he was
also a partner, and therefore he could not be proceeded against, and this
contention was upheld. But the
intricacies of the law are manifold. Watts
had misappropriated cheques, and he was indicted on a charge of stealing a piece
of paper (i.e. a cheque). This cheque
was a blank one, which he had filled up and cashed, and his conviction was
based on the theft of the paper. The
trumpery nature of the legal offence made the difference in the sentence
passed, which was ten years’ penal servitude. Tragedy lay in the sequel.
That night he hanged himself in his cell in Newgate, and it was said
that when his clothing was removed around his neck was found a miniature
portrait – that of the beautiful Mrs. Mowatt. --Pearce,
Charles E. Madame Vestris and her Times. London: Stanley Paul & Co.
1900. Page 294-295 ---
An Insurance
Romance [Communicated] An
interesting account of the vicissitudes of the old Marylebone or West London
Theatre in an evening contemporary, there appears the following: -- “Then a
Walter Woods became lessee and re-opened it in July 1848, magnificently
decorated. He engaged a number of very well-known players, including Mrs.
Mowatt (a lady he is said to have been very fond of), Mr. E.L. Davenport (an
American like Mrs. Mowatt), and Miss Fanny Vining. “I’ve got an
old bill here, and you will see he announces that his ‘performances consist of
the highest class of domestic drama, farce, and burlesque emanating from the
pens of the most popular authors.’ “The new
manager, who lived in style in St. John’s Wood, was only thirty-one years old,
and this was his first connection with a theatre. He was, so rumors said,
‘something’ in the Globe Insurance Office. The Final Drama “The
theatre, especially behind the scenes, was crowded with young loungers, and was
personally run by Mr. Watts for about eighteen months. Then he took the
Olympic, in Wych Street, keeping in touch with the Marylebone by means of a
deputy manager he appointed. “Watts
opened the Olympic in ’49 with ‘Two Gentlemen of Verona.’ The pantomime by
Nelson Lee was ‘Laugh and Grow Fat.’ Cormack was harlequin, and Tom Matthews
was the clown. “Later both
theatres were closed, and stranger rumours began to circulate about Watts,
until he appeared at the Mansion House on a charge of defrauding the Globe
Insurance Office of large sums of money. “He took his
trial at the Central Criminal Court for stealing an order for the payment of £1400 and a piece of paper. He was found guilty on the second
charge only, and to his amazement was sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude. “He
committed suicide in prison.” The story
was an old one thirty years ago, and, as recounted at that time, ran as
follows: -- The
directors of a great insurance company heard with grave concern of the fast
living and extravagance of one of their employees, a senior clerk in the life
department. This gay and debonair clerk was thereupon summoned to the
Board-room and invited to give an explanation of the talk of the town. With considerable confidence, the clerk
pleaded that what he did in his private moments was a matter entirely for his
private concern and quite outside the purview of the Office, so long as his
work inside the office hours was not prejudiced thereby! The
management made no complaint on that score, so the plea held good. But Nemesis
overtook this confident clerk in a singular way. A country clergyman, on business bent, called
at the Office to pay his life premium.
Then ensued a colloquy between the clerk at the counter (taking duty
temporarily in the absence of the clerk first referred to). Says the counter
clerk: “Sir, this policy became a claim some years ago!” “What!”
gasped the clergyman, “you assert seriously that this policy has become the
subject of a payment by reason of a claim?” “Quite so,”
responded the counter clerk, “the Rev. Mr. Blank died years ago.” Unconvinced,
the clergyman put the query – “You mean to say that I am dead?” The counter
clerk could only reiterate his remarks and thereupon, of course, there ensued
an interview with the management and an investigation. In the result, there was a prosecution of the
senior clerk, regarding whom the complaint had been made of notorious extravagance,
on charges of falsification and embezzlement.
Singularly enough, there arose technical difficulties in carrying the
case to a conclusion and it was only on the absurd and minor charge of stealing
a sheet of official letter paper that a conviction was ultimately
obtained. The newspaper says, naively
enough, the prisoner was amazed at the sentence of ten years penal
servitude. The closing chapter came in
the secret conveyance to the prisoner immediately after conviction, of a dose
of poison with which he destroyed himself. --An Insurance Romance. Post Magazine and Insurance Monitor. Vol. 70. Oct. 1909. P. 851  ---Romances of
Crime: For the Sake of a Woman The amazing
story of Walter Watts, the insurance clerk who wrote plays, ran theaters, and
was the pioneer of modern theatrical enterprise, would in itself form an admirable
subject for dramatic treatment. None of the
elements of drama are wanting. There is
a popular man of fashion who spends money lavishly, money which he obtains in
some mysterious way, for his modest clerkship yields him but three pounds a
week – the beautiful woman with whom he falls desperately in love – the inevitable
crash when the truth becomes known – the tragedy on which the curtain descends. Coupled with
all this is the unexpected – the essential factor in all dramatic situations –
and the unexpected came about in the opening scene. Two friends
met one summer’s afternoon in the Strand.
The contrast between them, both in dress and appearance, was sharp. One was Mr. Maddison Morton, the popular
author of the evergreen farce, “Box and Cox;” tall, thin, somewhat provincial
in look, with his ruddy face and not particularly well cut clothes carelessly
worn. The other somewhat shorter, was
well set up and in every way irreproachably groomed. His coat fitted without a crease, his hat perfectly
glossy, his boots and gloves were perfect, his whiskers and hair most carefully
trimmed. This little dandy with the
affable manner and pleasant smile was Walter Watts, checking clerk in the Globe
Insurance office. Maddison
Morton, like most dramatic authors of the mid-Victorian days, was at the moment
somewhat hard up, and over a glass of wine he consulted his friend Watts as to
the best method of raising the wind. “I’m glad I
met you, Watts, for there’s no one in the world better able to help me than
yourself. No, no, I don’t want to borrow,” he added, seeing the dressy little
man dive his hand into his pocket. “I
only want to you to tell me how to convert two shares in your own company into
money.” “All you’ve
got to do is to sell them,” rejoined Watts laughingly. “Yes, but
how am I to set about doing it?” Watts
thought a moment. “I’ll buy
them myself at present market value.” Maddison
Morton was delighted at the speedy settlement of the difficulty and within a
few days the two £50 shares changed hands and Walter
Watts thus became one of the proprietors, though only in a small way, of the
company which employed him. Whether
Walter Watts in doing this had any eye to his future proceedings may be
doubted, but certain it is that this apparently trifling transaction assumed
gigantic proportion when the time came for it to be revived. At the time
when Walter Watts met Maddison Morton, all London was going mad over a
beautiful American actress, Mrs. Mowatt, who had come from across the Atlantic
without any of the preliminary puffs which would now be the fashion, and had
captured the theatrical world at once. It
was no that she was an actress of any exceptional power, but her charming
figure, her bewitching smile, her sparkling eyes, and her grace of movement
disarmed criticism. Scores of men fell
in love with her, and among them Walter Watts. Watts had,
sometime previously, plunged into theatrical speculation, and when the
beautiful Mrs. Mowatt took the town by storm at the Princess Theatre he was
running the Marylebone Theatre in partnership with Mrs. Warner, a very popular
and clever actress. The partnership,
not proving successful, was dissolved, and Watts, in his infactuation for the
charming American lady, determined to run the Marylebone Theatre alone, and
make Mrs. Mowatt its bright particular star. Nothing was
too good or too expensive to render the Marylebone, once the home of lurid
melodrama, worthy of the beautiful Mrs. Mowatt. Watts’ plans
included the re-arrangement and improvement of the actors’ and actresses’
dressing-rooms and the construction of saloons were to be gorgeously fitted
up. Mirrors were to adorn the walls;
costly carpets were to cover the floors; the furniture, upholstered in satin,
was to be purchased regardless of cost.
In a word, Mr. Watts was anticipating the theatrical luxury of to-day. In the first
performance given in the newly-decorated Marylebone Theatre Mrs. Mowatt had no
share. Her time was to come. Mr. Watts
opened the house with farce, and romantic and domestic drama, engaging Mr. and
Mrs. Keeley as special attractions. A little
more than two months went over, during which the Keeleys drew crowded houses,
one of the new plays being an adaptation of Dickens’ “Martin Chuzzlewit.” Then came the announcement that “Mrs. Mowatt,
the popular authoress and actress from the United States, and Mr. Davenport
from the Park Theatre, New York” would appear for “twelve nights only.” Mrs. Mowatt
made her first appearance at the Marylebone in “As You Like It,” which was
succeeded by a dramatic version of “The Bride of Lammermoor.” The papers were
enthusiastic in her praise and also complimented Mr. Watts on his “spirited
management” and on the “bright” and “prosperous career” of the pretty little
theatre. Apparently
all was going swimmingly, so much so that when Mr. Tite, the deputy-chairman of
the Globe Insurance Company spoke very seriously to Watts as to the danger of
embarking in theatrical speculations, the check-clerk, in his blithe and
engaging manner, was able to point to the glowing press notices, and to persuade,
if not convince, his superior that everything was going on satisfactorily. “Well,” said
the grave city magnate, “I hope it is;
but I am still of the opinion that theatres are things in which a young man of
business ought not to mix himself up.” But, there
was nothing against Watts in the carrying out of his official duties. He was punctual, correct; everybody liked and not a few of his
colleagues envied him. Mrs. Mowatt’s
twelve nights’ engagement came to an end, and Walter Watts pursued his policy
of a “spirited engagement” by engaging Mr. T.P. Cooke, and producing “Black-Eyed
Susan,” and afterwards securing Mr. Buckstone and Mrs. Fitzwillam; winding up
the year at Christmastime with the production of a “grand comic pantomime,
replete with elaborate machinery and gorgeous effects, entitled, ‘One O’Clock: or Harlequin and Hardyknute, the
Knight and the Wooden Demon.’” Then for
nearly a year, Mrs. Mowatt was the leading star, to the exclusion of all others.
Watts was
singularly infatuated with the beautiful actress, and his judgement was
overcome by his passion. Mrs. Mowatt was a dramatist as well as an actress, and
Watts produced two of her plays, lavishing money over them. Both met with an indifferent success. One
critic, while admitting that Mrs. Mowatt exhibited “in her writings warm and
womanly feelings,” was of the opinion that, on the whole, the lady’s efforts
belonged “to the washy school of sentimental poetry.” Watts also
tried his hand at dramatic writing, and produced a play from his own pen
called, “A Dream of Life.” The moral was temperance, and in the last scene the
gallows was introduced, an experiment which was not successful, and after the
first night the scene was expunged. The end of
the year approached and Watts, more than ever fascinated by Mrs. Mowatt,
aspired to greater things. His term at
the Marylebone expiring, he took the Olympic Theatre, which having been burnt
down some time before, was now rebuilt.
Watts stopped at nothing to secure all the stars he could get hold
of. The list, as advertised, is headed
by Mrs. Mowatt, then follows Mr. G.V. Brooke; the celebrated tragedian, and
altogether over forty leading actors and actresses were in the company. Probably so lengthy and so complete a list of
names has never since been put before the public. Watts was
now determined to launch out, and he opened with Shakespearean drama, which he
produced on a scale of splendor that in those days was quite a novelty. Here, also, Mrs. Mowatt’s second play, called
“Fashion: or Life in New York” was performed. For two
months play after play was presented and put upon the stage in a style to which
London had not been accustomed. Watts
himself kept open house at his villa in St. John’s Wood, and lived as though he
were a millionaire. No one was
more generous in his dealings towards the members of his company. All the leading actors and actresses had
understudies to take their places in case of accident or illness, and they received
high salaries. Mrs. Marston, a
well-known actress, was one of the understudies. “Oh, Mr.
Watts,” said she one day, when he was paying her. “I don’t like taking
this. It is bad money.” “Bad money?
What do you mean?” said he. “Why, I’m
doing nothing, and you’re paying me far too well for doing it.” “Oh, is that
all?” And he laughed carelessly. Little did
Mrs. Marston imagine how true, in a certain sense, her words were. Meanwhile, a
cloud was gathering in the city. Probably
the incongruity of Walter Watts retaining his situation in the Globe Insurance
Company while apparently he was making thousands by his theatrical enterprise,
struck the directors as curious; but whatever may have been the cause, the
secretary became a little uneasy, and after some conversation with Mr. Tite, he
was directed to make an investigation. Now the
principal duty of Watts, who was the assistant clerk in the accountant’s
office, was to check the payments at the bank and the bankers’ pass-books, and
every Wednesday morning he had to give a statement to the directors of the
balance in hand at the bankers, in order that they might see the state of the
funds of the company and provide accordingly. When the
cheques that were returned from the bank were verified, it was Watts’ duty to
tie them up in a bundle in a regular order, so that they might always be
referred to as vouchers both for the bank and the company. It is
necessary to not this in order to understand what followed. One morning
early in March, just when the Olympic and its lease, Walter Watts were
apparently in the heyday of their prosperity, the secretary entered the room of
the deputy-chairman. The latter
looked at the subordinate’s face and saw that was unusably serious. “Well,” he
said, after a pause, “have you done anything?” “Yes, I have
gone thoroughly into the matter, sir, and I regret to say my suspicions are
confirmed. I find great irregularities
in the pass-books, but to save trouble I have taken one particular item and
endeavored to trace it. The voucher for
a cheque of £1400 drawn by the directors on February 26 cannot be found
and there is an erasure in the pass-book where it should appear. Over that erasure appears to have been written
another amount of £417 which, however, is correct.” “In whose
writing?” asked Mr. Tite. “In that of
Mr. Walter Watts. I have also mad
another discovery. On the 26th
of February, the day on which the cheque was drawn, Mr. Walter Watts paid into
his account at the London and Westminster Bank a cheque for £1400.” Mr. Tite’s
face clouded. He was a kindly man. Walter Watts had been a clerk in the Globe
Insurance Company for ten years. Watts’
father was cashier to the company and a respected and valued servant. “This cheque
paid to the London and Westminster,” said he after a pause, “was it a Globe
Insurance cheque?” “Yes.” “This is a
bad business and must not go on. We must seal up Mr. Walter Watts’ papers.” This was
done, and during the operation, Watts came in.
Watts’ father, the cashier, was sent for, and Mr. Tite, in the presence
of both said great irregularities had been discovered and before he took any
step in the matter he thought it right to call them both before him as he thought
they must both be involved. The father
protested his innocence, and said he could account for every shilling. “I believe
that,” said Mr. Tite. “Can you say the same thing, Walter Watts?” “I decline
to say anything. You have disgraced me by sealing up the papers, and as I have
done nothing of which I need to be ashamed, I shall not stop here. You forget
that I am a proprietor as well as you.” In this
expression, “I am a proprietor,” lies a hidden meaning, and the explanation
will be found in the purchase already mentioned from Mr. Maddison Morton of the
two shares in the Globe Insurance Company.
In other words, Watts, being a shareholder, was in the position of a
partner, and therefore could not be proceeded against criminally. Walter Watts
had robbed the company of upwards of £80000. After the
interview with the deputy-chairman, Watts went away, and that evening sent a
letter to Mr. Tite tendering his resignation and stating that if he was wanted,
he would be found at the Olympic Theatre. The
following night a notice was posted up in the theatre that it would be closed
until Easter. Walter Watts had run his
race. Two more
days went over, and yet the directors did nothing. They were in a great difficulty. Although it was absolutely true that Watts
had robbed them, they could not bring evidence – legal evidence – that is – to prove
the theft. Watts’
method was highly ingenious. He first
appropriated cheques drawn by the company and instead of paying them in to the
company’s bankers, he paid them to his own account. He then mad erasures in the pass-book, so
that the theft would not be discovered, and destroyed the vouchers when they
came into his possession which would be the case from the position he occupied
in the company’s office. Therefore,
though he had had the cheque, there was no proof that the money had come into
his possession, and all that the directors could do was to charge him with
stealing a piece of paper – that is, the printed cheque-slip – valued at a
penny. No wonder
they hesitated in proceeding. But they
had other reasons. They were reluctant
to prosecute Walter Watts for the sake of his father and they were anxious to
avoid the exposure and the damage to the company which would result if it were
known how lax their management had been. So Walter
Watts had three clear days in which he could have fled, and had he done so, the
pursuit would not have been swift. The
directors would rather that he had disappeared. But, with a
strange fatuity, he stayed and when he heard the matter had been placed in the
hands of Daniel Forrester, the most expert detective of the day, he wrote to
Forrester, and expressed his willingness to meet him at his solicitor’s office
as he could explain everything. Knowing he
was guilty of gigantic frauds, it is extraordinary that Watts did not creep
through the loophole of escape proffered to him by the kindly directors. The key to the mystery is the extraordinary
hold which the fascinating, emotional woman had over him. She believed in spiritualism and clairvoyance
– she persuaded him he had nothing to fear, and he believed her. Possibly too, he thought that to fly would
make him appear a coward in her eyes. His counsel,
Sir A. Cockburn, fought the prosecution entirely on the point of law that
Watts, being a partner in the concern, count not be proceeded against
criminally. Mr. Justice Creswell, who
tried the case, was in great doubt as to the proof of the robbery, but allowed
the jury to decide. They found him
guilty of stealing a piece of paper. But the
difficulty was not over. Sentence was deferred and the Court of Criminal
Investigation met four times to consider the point raised by Sir A.
Cockburn. It was adverse to Watts and he
was sentenced to ten years penal servitude. Now came the
tragedy. On the evening of the day which
he was sentenced, the unhappy man committed suicide in Newgate. Cutting the rope from the sacking of his bed,
he hanged himself. Then a
pathetic discovery was made. Round his
neck was a chain pressed into the flesh by the rope, and suspended to the chain
was a locket containing the miniature portrait of the beautiful Mrs. Mowatt! “For the Sake of a Woman.” The Advertiser, Saturday May 7, 1910 page 19.  ---A Bogus Financier Eight
years before the Victorian era forgery ceased to be a capital offense.
The cynical seers of the period detected in that event the sure
forerunner of a progressive increase in commercial frauds and City
crimes. The colossal speculations personified in the nineteenth-century
Napoleon of the steam locomotive system, whose end and fall became him better
than his beginnings and triumphs stand by themselves. The soil in which they
flourished proved productive also of financial adventures on a much less
gigantic scale, but amid circumstance more tragic or disgraceful, leading to
the same disastrous end. During the period of Peel’s bank legislation, the City knew no
more stylish equipage than a cabriolet driven by a gentleman in the prime of
early manhood, with the most diminutive, agile, smartly-dressed “tiger” ever
seen in Cornhill hold the strap on the outside perch behind his master. A
regularly as the Bank opened, the charioteer came in sight, jumped from his
vehicle, gave the reins to “Tiger Tim,” who then vanished, only to reappear at
another spot beyond Temple Bar about the time when business gentlemen found
themselves, like Tennyson’s Orion, “sloping slowly to the west.” Occasionally the drive to and fro between the City and the
West End was performed in a brougham, of appearance as decorous and chaste as
if it belonged to the President of the College of Physicians or the pattern of
political proprieties, Sir Robert Peel himself.
Mr. Walter Watts, to celebrate the hero of this episode by his full
name, was then usually accompanied by a lady, not of the red satin order then
often compassionating the loneliness of single gentlemen, but by a fair
companion of another kind attired with the quiet grace of a Quakeress, or who
might have served as a model for one of Miss Jane Austen’s heroines in Mr. Hugh
Thomson’s charming illustrations to Messrs. Macmillan’s edition. By daylight a patron of the prize-ring, he passed part at
least of every evening in his opera-box, where he liked to pose as the cynosure
of the house. Here, of course, he had
become the pet of the ballet, was at home behind the scenes, and had the
privilege of paying a fancy price for exchanging with the coryphées the
professional epithet of “dear.” Prima donnas themselves were known to grace his
banquets after the performance, served in Fancatelli’s best style at the St.
James Hotel, then about the only place in the Piccadilly district where smart
company and high-class cookery went together. Had all this display of gorgeous
spendthriftness come ten or twelve years later, its anonymous hero would have
been put down as the Antipodean finder of a nugget or shearer of a thousand
flocks. Some said he wormed himself into Sir Robert Peel’s
confidence and knew enough of State secrets for safe and successful gambling in
funds. Others though the leviathan of bookmakers, Davis, had taken him by the
hand and initiated him into all the mysteries of fortune-making on the
Turf. He seldom, however, if at all,
showed himself at Tattersalls, was certainly never known to come with full
pockets out of the innumerable betting-houses he might have frequented, and did
not apparently live among a sporting set.
Equally little, on the other hand, in theatre, park, the King’s Road,
Brighton, where he had a country house under the shadow of the Pavilion, or at
race-course enclosure, did he ever appear in the aristocratic or fashionable
society to which his style, tastes, and wealth might have justified his
pretensions. Two physical and literary giants of the time, as the story
runs, the novelist of “The Newcomes” and his former schoolfellow and future
Cornhill Magazine contributor “Jacob Omnium,” came upon him one day in a dark corner
of Mayfair. “Know who he is?” said one to the other. “Know nothing about him” was the reply,
“except that he is in training for the Old Bailey.” “Big Higgins,” as London then knew
Thackeray’s friend, liked nothing better than a little amateur detective
business, which, however, he generally kept as dark as if it were a
professional lay. The next time Mr.
Walter Watts alighted from his carriage in the Leadenhall vicinity, who should
be watching him do so by Mr. Higgins.
Following him some 200 yards, he saw his quarry enter the Globe
Assurance Office. Here, as a fact, Watts
had a clerkship, lately increased in salary to some £200 a year, scarcely enough to
support the state in which he lived, and the two theatres, the Marylebone and
the Olympic, whose proprietor this artistic and literary Maecenas had become. The nineteenth century had scarcely entered upon its second
half when the mystery which had so long exercised the town was solved, the
bubble burst, and the gaff blown. False entries in the office records,
forgeries in the pass-book, had confirmed the suspicions long since thrown upon
this particular employee of the company. Though bluffing to the last with
consummate coolness and audacity, Mr. Watts was committed for trail at the next
sessions of the Criminal Court. There
and then it came out that between August 1844, and February, 1850, when the
discovery came, Watts had contrived to appropriate a little more than £70,000. --Escott, T.H.S., City
Characters Under Several Reigns. London: Effinham Wilson: 1922. Pages 54-57 content goes here |
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Watts at the time was lessee of the Marylebone Theatre, and
fired by the example of Madame Vestris, or by some personal ambition, was
transforming this dingy and inconvenient theatre into a luxurious home of the
drama.