Whom The Gods Would Destroy (1)
Lycaon pictus
Donor
As Brougham himself would say of his great opponent, “Put all their other men together in one scale, and poor Castlereagh in the other single, he plainly weighed them down.” Before Canning’s undeserved fall from grace, he and Castlereagh had been the guiding intelligences of the Conservative party, and afterwards the foreign secretary had borne that whole burden alone. Perhaps this is why although lesser lights such as Sidmouth were only briefly shocked by the Jeannot/St.-Leger betrayal, Castlereagh was deeply, deeply unnerved. In spite of all his cunning, he had been maneuvered by the kingdom’s worst enemy into nearly instigating a civil war. This had been followed almost immediately by the Radicals’ de facto leader standing before the Lords and openly threatening them with violent overthrow. It was, perhaps, only natural that his healthy respect for the capacities of his foes would become a terror that over the course of the next two years would gradually consume him…
Bertrand Martineau and P.G. Sherman, The Great Scheme
There is a saying in the intelligence community: “Just because you’re echthro doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.” It is often reversed to “just because they’re out to get you doesn’t mean you’re not echthro.” In the case of Lord Castlereagh, this was literally and tragically true. No matter how carefully one peruses his writings, or the records of those who knew him and worked for him, it is nearly impossible to find the point where the legitimate fears of a man with real enemies foreign and domestic become the delusions of a malfunctioning brain.
Much of the popular impression of Castlereagh’s last years has its origin, oddly enough, in an opera written by an American over thirty years after the fact. Green’s Castlereagh (apart from its more obvious inaccuracies, such as condensing the events of two years into an indeterminate number of days) creates a masterful portrait of a cunning, ruthless man gradually driven mad by the plots and counter-plots that surround him. A number of political novels, plays and K-graphs have been based on this interpretation. Many of these are ideologically based — to the Elmarist novelist Lucien Tevault, Castlereagh was an aristocrat who imagined himself clever only to be outwitted by the superior cunning of lower-born men, whereas to the aristist playwright Viktor Schicklgruber his fate was the Tragic Destiny of a true Hero.
Given what we now know of mental illness, all this is a gross oversimplification of the case. Although of course no trace of the foreign secretary’s brain remains for analysis, the beginnings of his paranoia must surely have been in some physical deterioration there. If the Caroline affair had never happened at all, or at least had been less of a tangle, perhaps Castlereagh’s sickness might have taken a different, less violent form.
We will never know. What we do know is that by 1822 his memory was failing and he was prone to violent outbursts that terrified his servants. In the classic manner of true echthrophrenia, every event that came to his attention turned itself into a fresh source of fear — in June, when the Bishop of Clogher was caught in a compromising position with a handsome young man, for example, Castlereagh became convinced that his servants were plotting to blackmail him by accusing him of the same.[1] And, again in the classic manner of true echthrophrenia, his suspicions eventually fell on those closest to him…
Much of the popular impression of Castlereagh’s last years has its origin, oddly enough, in an opera written by an American over thirty years after the fact. Green’s Castlereagh (apart from its more obvious inaccuracies, such as condensing the events of two years into an indeterminate number of days) creates a masterful portrait of a cunning, ruthless man gradually driven mad by the plots and counter-plots that surround him. A number of political novels, plays and K-graphs have been based on this interpretation. Many of these are ideologically based — to the Elmarist novelist Lucien Tevault, Castlereagh was an aristocrat who imagined himself clever only to be outwitted by the superior cunning of lower-born men, whereas to the aristist playwright Viktor Schicklgruber his fate was the Tragic Destiny of a true Hero.
Given what we now know of mental illness, all this is a gross oversimplification of the case. Although of course no trace of the foreign secretary’s brain remains for analysis, the beginnings of his paranoia must surely have been in some physical deterioration there. If the Caroline affair had never happened at all, or at least had been less of a tangle, perhaps Castlereagh’s sickness might have taken a different, less violent form.
We will never know. What we do know is that by 1822 his memory was failing and he was prone to violent outbursts that terrified his servants. In the classic manner of true echthrophrenia, every event that came to his attention turned itself into a fresh source of fear — in June, when the Bishop of Clogher was caught in a compromising position with a handsome young man, for example, Castlereagh became convinced that his servants were plotting to blackmail him by accusing him of the same.[1] And, again in the classic manner of true echthrophrenia, his suspicions eventually fell on those closest to him…
Arthur Roundtree, The Dangerous Years
July 27, 1822
shortly after 5 p.m.
Fife House, Whitehall[2]
To one who didn’t know him well, it would seem that there was nothing wrong with Lord Castlereagh. He was poised and impeccably dressed, with only a hint of furtiveness about his eyes… and more than a week’s growth of beard on his face. He was carrying a greatcoat rolled under his arm, although there was no need for it at all in this weather. And why didn’t the butler take it at the door? thought Liverpool.
“Please sit down, Robert,” said the Earl of Liverpool. But instead of sitting down, Castlereagh went to the window and peered out, pushing the curtains aside the slightest amount.
“I believe I was followed here,” he said. “In fact, I am certain of it.”
“Well, you’re safe enough in my house, any road,” said Lord Liverpool. “Now sit down and let me bring you some wine.”
“You must forgive my… appearance, Robert,[3]” said Castlereagh, stroking his chin. “Of late, it seems, I… I cannot keep a razor in my house. They have all disappeared.” He looked out the window again. “Razors and knives, razors and knives,” he muttered. “Who could be taking them? To what purpose?” He shook his head a little. “Forgive me.”
Castlereagh sat down, but his eyes kept moving between the window or the doors. “I… don’t wish to be overheard,” he said.
“I trust the discretion of the servants, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Nonetheless, the Prime Minister brought the wine and wineglasses himself. The less of… this… was generally known, the better. He poured Castlereagh a glass, and then another for himself. He sat down and raised his glass.
“To… peace of mind,” he said.
“Peace of mind,” said Castlereagh, raising his glass in response. As he brought the wine to his lips, his elbow brushed the arm of the chair where his greatcoat was resting. A revolver fell out and hit the floor.
Liverpool sprang to his feet, dropping his own wineglass on the carpet.
“What in God’s name?”
“A Francotte revolver, made in Liege,” said Castlereagh, sipping his wine. “I had one of my agents in France obtain one. Seven shots — excellent weapon. Collier’s design, I believe.[4]” (Even in the grip of whatever madness this was, the man knew his firearms.) “They are developing a model for the use of their army, planning to… set up a factory in… in…” He shook his head. “Blast it, where?”
“Never mind that! Put it away!” Suddenly, Liverpool found it very easy to believe that his wife or servants had taken it upon themselves to hide all the sharp objects in the house. “Good God, man, do you expect to be assaulted here?”
“Not here,” he said, tucking the pistol back into the folds of the coat. “But on the streets… I feared assassins, and I no longer trust my servants.”
Liverpool sighed. There was no time for small talk today.
“Robert, I invited you here for a reason,” he said. “I spoke with His Majesty yesterday at Carlton House. Since your last audience with him, he has become deeply concerned about you.” There was this to be said for the king — when he wasn’t in a laudanum-induced stupor or gnashing his teeth over his own sundry grievances, he could be quite attentive to others. And a far less observant man would have seen that Castlereagh was… not in the best of health.
“What is it you’ve been told about me?” said Castlereagh sharply. His eyelids were twitching. How long has it been since this man slept properly? thought Liverpool. “Robert, you must believe, I’m not an invert, I’m not a damned sodomite!”
“No, of course not! That is not—” Liverpool stopped. “Excuse me for a moment. I wish to make sure we are not being overheard.”
“By all means.”
As Liverpool checked the nearby rooms and corridors for any servants who might be eavesdropping, he went over in his mind, one more time, what it was he needed to say. Robert, you are not well. Your mind has been agitated past reason. Rest and prayer are what you need. You cannot serve the realm in this condition. His Majesty, and Arthur, and myself are all of one mind in this.
The man needed a respite from work. He needed to return to his own estates — or to a warmer, healthier climate. Gibraltar, perhaps, or Malta. After a year or so, he could return refreshed and resume his duties. He would be 54 by then — that was no great age for a statesman. And surely the realm would be in a better state by then. Already, the lower classes were spending less time grumbling and more time working.[5]
Even now, Liverpool wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of doing without him and Canning both. And what if he was right? The Radicals had accused the whole Government of plotting to disinherit Her Highness. Before that, they had accused the Duke of Cumberland of murdering a servant and performing an abominable assault on one of his sisters, and he had been far less a threat to them than Castlereagh. Liverpool would put no libel or slander past those jackals at this point.
It doesn’t matter. When a man’s wife feels the need to hide his razors, that man is not of sound mind.
And then Liverpool heard a voice behind him. A calm, yet somehow terrifying voice.
“You haven’t had any wine, Robert.”
Liverpool spun around. Castlereagh was pointing the revolver at his chest. There was a look of rage and betrayal on his face.
“You poisoned me,” he said in a low voice that was almost a hiss.
Then he pulled the trigger.
Castlereagh was an excellent shot, and whatever had destroyed his mind had done no harm to his muscle memory. The Prime Minister was already dead when he hit the floor.
* * *
The servants on the upper floors heard the shot. About half a minute later, they heard another shot. It took them some time to work up the nerve to investigate. When they did, they found the corpses of both men.
[1] This happened in July IOTL.
[2] Lord Liverpool seems to have spent more time here than at Number 10.
[3] Unfortunately, they’re both named “Robert.” I hope this doesn’t make it hard to keep track.
[4] IOTL, the American inventor Elisha Collier moved to London in 1818, where he could get a more lucrative contract. ITTL he moves to Liege instead.
[5] The PM doesn’t really grasp the process, but the economy is starting to pick up.
Who's the Head of Government, now? 
