Or one might have seen him driving past the fetid Pavilion at Brighton in his smart carriage, with its fawn-coloured lining, and have recognised in the shameless features of the flashy lady at his side the notorious ‘Corinthian Kate’ herself—in real life Mrs ‘Bang’ most ‘slap-up of ladybirds’ Then, again, at his luxurious seaside home in Western Place, with its conservatories and sumptuous billiard-room-draped as a facsimile of Napoleon’s travelling tent—his Kate’s dear friend Harriet Wilson, or other illustrious fair ones, would come to amuse his bachelor companions. Thus, in his leisure moments, the industrious Fauntleroy enjoyed secretly the life of an epicure and sensualist. Deep-buried in his soul the love of vice was ever present. “There only needed one thing to complete your equipage,” he writes, in plain double entente that indicates his ruling passion, to his friend Sheriff Parkins, “instead of the man at your side, a beautiful angel!”
Marriage had meant no sowing of wild oats to Henry Fauntleroy. A mystery surrounds his union to the daughter of a naval captain named John Young. It is known only that, although a son was born, the match from the first was an unhappy one, and an early separation took place. During the year of Waterloo a liaison with a married lady, who had a complacent or shortsighted husband, increased the habits of extravagance which in the end brought the banker to ruin. Later, the pretty young girl Maria Fox, who had been educated at a convent in France, consented to become the mistress of his suburban home. Thus the double life continued; while to those who knew him only in Berners Street, Mr Fauntleroy appeared the most righteous and respectable of men.
What was the nominal income of the young bank manager it is impossible to ascertain; but whatever the sum, it is certain that before very long his expenditure began to exceed his means. Probably he took the first step on his downward march during the year of the hejira to Elba. The strength and weakness of his character combined to make the position of Tantalus unendurable. Nothing seemed more certain than that the Berners Street house, which had never recovered from its unfortunate speculations, would return large profits if its capital was sufficient to meet all claims. Thus Fauntleroy decided not to take his colleagues into his confidence. Such a step would have caused the business to be wound up, and he would have lost his handsome salary. As one of his most severe critics has pointed out, “he had not enough moral courage to face the world in honest, brave poverty.” On the contrary, his courage took another form. Confident that he must conquer evil fortune, the self-reliant man resolved to commence a life-and-death battle with fate, alone and unaided. And his choice was the frightful expedient of forgery!
The methods of Fauntleroy were of unparalleled audacity. Then, as now, clients were in the habit of placing the certificates of their securities in the hands of their bankers for safe custody. So, by boldly forging the signature of the proprietor upon a power of attorney, he was able to sell any particular investment that he desired. Naturally, his depredations were confined to Government securities—Consols, Long Annuities, Exchequer Bills—and thus in effecting the fraudulent transfers his negotiations were with the Bank of England. For a period of almost ten years this incomparable swindler maintained the credit of his house in this manner, selling stocks belonging to his clients to the value of hundreds of thousands of pounds. As the proprietors received their dividends as regularly as ever—for Fauntleroy took care that their pass-books were credited with the half-yearly payments—they never knew that their investments had been abstracted. On the death of an owner the stolen stock was replaced, and thus the trustees were unaware of the theft. So the frauds went on, each forgery being shrouded by another, until the total deficit of the Berners Street Bank exceeded half a million!
Narrow escapes were inevitable. On one occasion he was handing over a power of attorney for the transfer of stock to one of the clerks in the Consols Office at the Bank of England, when the person whose name he had forged entered the room. Yet Fauntleroy’s aplomb did not fail him. As soon as he perceived the new-comer, he requested the clerk to return the document, with the excuse that he wished to correct an omission. Then, having secured the paper, he went to greet the friend whom he was about to rob, and they strolled out of the bank together. Another day, one of his lady clients instructed a London broker to sell some stock for her. Finding no such investment registered in her name, the man called at Berners Street to make inquiries. To his surprise the plausible banker informed him that the lady had already desired him to effect the sale. “And here,” continued the smiling Fauntleroy, producing a number of Exchequer bills, “are the proceeds.” Although his customer protested that she had never authorised the transaction, the matter was allowed to drop. While a friend was chatting in his private office he is said to have been imitating his signature, which he took out to the counting-house before his companion had departed. One of the last occasions when he visited the Bank of England was on the 5th of January, the day on which Thurtell and Hunt were tried for the Gillshill murder. While the clerk was crediting the dividend warrants due to his firm, the banker conversed about the crime. It was noted as a strange coincidence that the same clerk was one of the witnesses against him.
One day in September 1824, Mr J. D. Hulme, an official of the Custom House, wishing to examine a list of investments belonging to an estate of which he had become a trustee, paid a visit to the Bank of England. To his amazement he found that a sum of £10,000 in Consols was missing, and inquiry proved that the stock had been sold by the Berners Street manager under a power of attorney. On the advice of Mr Freshfield, solicitor of the bank, an application was made to Mr Conant of Marlborough Street, who was induced to grant a warrant for the arrest of the suspected man. At last the wily Fauntleroy had been caught napping; for although he was aware that there was a risk of exposure, and had made preparations to reinvest the stolen Consols, he had not yet been able to complete the transaction.
During the whole of Thursday night, Samuel Plank, chief-officer of Marlborough Street, finding that the banker was away from home, paraded Berners Street watching for his return. On the next morning, the 10th of September, at his usual hour, the grave, neatly dressed forger walked into his place of business. A mean trick marked the arrest. Mr Goodchild, the other co-trustee of the plundered estate, entered the counting-house a few moments before Plank, and proceeded into the private office, while the constable, pretending to cash a cheque, remained at the counter. When through the half-closed door of the inner room he saw that the victim and decoy were closeted together, the police-officer pushed past the astonished clerks, explaining that he wanted to speak to their employer. As Fauntleroy raised his eyes from his desk, and saw a warrant in the intruder’s hand, he realised that the visit of his friend was merely a device to place him in the hand of the law.
“Good God!” exclaimed the doomed man. “Cannot this business be settled?”
And tradition relates that he offered Plank a bribe of ten thousand pounds to allow him to escape. But the officer proved incorruptible, and soon the banker was standing in the presence of his astonished friend, Magistrate John Conant, who, though sore distressed, was compelled to commit him to Coldbath Fields prison.
“I alone am guilty,” cried the wretched Fauntleroy, in a burst of penitence. “My colleagues did not know!”