The Temptress: The Scandalous Life of Alice de Janze and the Mysterious Death of Lord Erroll

To June Elizabeth Cadogan Spicer, my wife,

and our two children, Rupert and Venetia.

And to our two grandchildren,

Alexander and Tara Watson.

Contents

Prologue

PART I

One: The Heiress

Two: The Countess

Three: Kenya

Four: Raymund and the Coup de Foudre

Five: The Shooting at the Gare du Nord

Six: Freedom and Exile

Seven: The Bride in Black and White

PART II

Eight: The Return to Happy Valley

Nine: The Gathering Storm

Ten: The New Elements

Eleven: The Murder of Lord Erroll

Twelve: The Trial of Jock Delves Broughton

Thirteen: The Case for Alice

Fourteen: A Green Bedroom Full of Flowers

Epilogue: The Missing Letter and the Great Beyond

Author’s Note

Cast of Characters

Family Trees

Bibliography

Acknowledgments

Index

Prologue

IT WAS AROUND 3:00 A.M. ON JANUARY 24, 1941, WHEN the body of Josslyn Hay, the earl of Erroll, was discovered lying curled up and facedown on the floor of his Buick car in Kenya, East Africa. The car had come to a rest over a gravel pit by the side of the Ngong Road, eight miles from the capital, Nairobi. Joss, as he was known to all, had been shot at close range, the fatal bullet entering by the side of his left ear. Even in death, his otherwise-unmarked face remained that of a very handsome man. At thirty-nine years old, Josslyn Victor Hay—twenty-second incumbent of the Erroll earldom, the hereditary Lord High Constable of Scotland—was a linchpin of Kenya’s colonial community. Blond, good-looking, clever, an ace card and polo player, Joss devoted a good deal of his considerable energies to seducing women, especially those who were already married. His very arrival in Africa in 1923 had taken place under scandalous circumstances: He had eloped with Lady Idina Gordon, an older divorcée and veteran of two marriages.

Much has been made of Joss and Idina and the famously decadent Happy Valley crowd that they gathered around them during the 1920s, although the truth is perhaps a little less exotic. The Hays and their coterie were a small, tight-knit group of mainly British and aristocratic friends and farmers attempting to forge a new existence in the Wanjohi Valley (a place that later acquired the epithet Happy due to the good spirits induced by its high altitude). Certainly they found time to enjoy themselves there—house parties would begin at sundown and last until dawn, fueled by alcohol and sexual intrigue. After his murder, it became clear that Joss, who had already been married, divorced, and remarried, and was recently widowed at the time of his death, could have had any number of enemies. He had carried on numerous adulterous affairs throughout his life and had recently begun a relationship with yet another married woman.

Although his death made newspaper headlines around the world, sympathy for the murdered earl did not always run deep. The American press, ever succinct, printed the immortal headline PASSIONATE PEER GETS HIS. There was, however, plenty of interest in exactly who had committed the crime. After Joss’s murder, the Kenyan police, and the attorney general in particular, decided the obvious culprit was Sir Henry John Jock Delves Broughton. Jock’s new wife, the blond and vivacious Diana, had become Joss’s latest conquest, and the police reasoned that Jock had murdered Joss in revenge for stealing his bride. Jock was duly charged and then imprisoned. He went on trial on May 26, 1941, but was never convicted, and after being acquitted on July 1, 1941, he was discharged. Although his name was cleared, Broughton never recovered from the ignominy of the trial, and he committed suicide the following year. To this date, the Erroll crime remains officially unsolved.

So who shot Lord Erroll? The question hangs in the air. Many possible answers have been given by a number of preeminent writers. The first to set his sights on the story was British journalist Cyril Connolly. A prominent contributor to the New Statesman in the 1930s, a critic for many years on the Sunday Times, and the literary editor of the Observer from 1942 to 1943, Connolly had been fascinated by the Erroll case from the beginning. In 1969, he joined forces with fellow journalist James Fox to undertake a complete investigation of the murder for the Sunday Times magazine. The result was published in that same year and was entitled Christmas at Karen, its content gleaned from dozens of interviews. With its accompanying photographs, including a picture of Erroll’s head with its bullet wound, Connolly’s article stopped short of naming a murderer, but even so, it reignited the controversy. Fox pursued the case even after Connolly’s death, publishing his book about the murder, White Mischief, in 1982. It became a classic of crime reporting and was later made into a film starring Charles Dance and Greta Scacchi. In both book and film, a heavy shadow is cast over Broughton’s self-proclaimed innocence—after all, Jock was the only person to stand trial for the murder. Many have taken his suicide to be tantamount to an admission of guilt.

Since the publication of White Mischief, there have been other authors who have either substantiated Fox’s theory or disputed it. In 1997, Leda Farrant published her own version of events—Diana, Lady Delamere and the Lord Erroll Murder—in which she claimed that it was Diana herself who had committed the killing. According to Farrant, Diana was furious with Joss for refusing to marry her. In the 1999 memoir Child of Happy Valley, Juanita Carberry, who grew up in Kenya, related that Broughton had confessed his culpability to her three days after the murder, when she was just fifteen years old. Most recently, the journalist Errol Trzebinski’s biography of Lord Erroll, The Life and Death of Lord Erroll (2000), pins the blame on MI6 or a branch of British intelligence. The motive for assassinating Erroll, according to Trzebinski, was that Erroll had fascist leanings. The Oscar-winning screenwriter Julian Fellowes also revisited the facts of the case in his 2005 television special, A Most Mysterious Murder: The Case of the Earl of Erroll, placing the blame squarely back on Broughton.

A peripheral character in all these narratives is Countess Alice de Janzé. Alice sustained an on-again, off-again relationship with Joss for the best part of two decades and was probably still in love with him at the time of his murder. Born in Buffalo, New York, in 1899, this transcendently beautiful American heiress became a French countess by marriage. After she arrived in Africa via Paris, attired in the latest French fashions, she quickly won over almost every man she encountered there, while still managing to befriend most of their wives. Alice was the very definition of a colorful character, and although hardly a well-known figure in our times, she achieved infamy during her own lifetime, making newspaper headlines around the world with her exploits. It is Alice’s story that I will tell in this book.

For my part, I have been aware of Alice’s name since childhood. Alice was a friend of my mother, Margaret Spicer. The two women met in Kenya when they had both newly arrived there in 1925 (at that time, my father, Roy Spicer, was serving as commissioner of the Kenya police). At the time, Alice and her husband, Count Frédéric de Janzé, were staying with their friends Joss and Idina in the Wanjohi Valley. Margaret and Alice had much in common. Both were Americans abroad—Alice from Chicago, Illinois, and my mother, born in Larkspur, Colorado. They were both fluent in French: Alice had arrived in Paris in 1920, chaperoned by her aunt; Margaret had been educated in Montreux, Switzerland. As new arrivals in Kenya, they found themselves surrounded by a predominantly British expatriate crowd, so it is perhaps not surprising that they sought each other out. Alice and my mother were both musical, and they often entertained the Happy Valley circle by singing popular American songs and spirituals from the Deep South, with Alice accompanying on the ukulele. My mother’s friendship with Alice lasted until 1927, when she left Kenya to return to England. Evidently, Alice held a considerable fascination for my mother—as she did for so many who knew her—because when my mother died in 1953, I came into the possession of her diaries and family papers, and it was among these that I discovered numerous press cuttings and references to the glamorous countess. As well as the papers and cuttings, my mother left me her copy of Vertical Land, a book of sketches depicting life in Kenya in the mid-1920s, written by Alice’s husband, Frédéric. For most readers, the characters in Frédéric’s Vertical Land appear to be fictional, since he changed the names of the real-life characters he described, but my mother had decoded these pen portraits, writing in pencil in the margins of her copy the true names of the characters.

In one story in Vertical Land, Alice appears as Delecia, an elegant American who is seen pulling up at Nairobi’s exclusive Muthaiga Club in a low-slung Buick piled with luggage and a lion cub. Later in the book, in a portrait entitled Just Like a Gipsy, Frédéric described another woman who could only be Alice, her ukulele transformed into a mandolin. The passage is characterized by the rather flowery Symbolist language fashionable in France at the time, and as such, it gives us a highly stylized version of her person and presence:

Wide eyes, so calm, short thick hair, full red lips, a body to desire. The powerful hands clutch and wave along the mandolin and the crooning somnolent melody breaks; her throat trembles and her gleaming shoulders droop.

That weird soul of mixtures is at the door! her cruelty and lascivious thoughts clutched the thick lips on close white teeth.

She holds us with her song, and her body sways towards ours. No man will touch her exclusive soul, shadowy with memories, unstable and suicidal.

Like most depictions of Alice, the portrait raises more questions than it answers, but there is no doubt that Frédéric was correct in his assessment of Alice as unstable and suicidal. She was a woman who suffered throughout her life from the demons of melancholy, and who tried to take her own life on a number of occasions. Alongside this dark streak, however, was a vein of impetuous and often reckless daring. As a young heiress, she quickly tired of the Chicago debutante scene and began to explore the Jazz Age nightclubs of the city, starting up an affair with a local mobster. After being banished to Paris by her family, she took a job at a French fashion house by day, cutting a swath through the city’s clubs and cafés by night. It was in France that she won her independence from her family when she married Frédéric, the sensitive, intellectual count who took her to Africa to help cure her of her unhappiness. After only a few months in Kenya, she decided to build a home there, leaving her two young children in France, too fearful of being a bad mother to grace them with more than the occasional visit. In Africa, her marriage to Frédéric fell apart after she started affairs with the two men who would become her great loves, Joss and her second husband, Raymund de Trafford.

As I began to research her life, the Alice I discovered was a lesson in contradictions. She could be bold and eccentric: She would go out riding alone among wild animals, kept a Nile crocodile in her bathtub in Paris, and launched herself with abandon into affairs with a string of dubious lovers. But her letters and other writings often reveal a sense of wrenching need and, at times, overwhelming unhappiness. In 1941, only eight months after Joss Erroll’s murder, she finally succeeded in taking her own life at home in Kenya. She was forty-two. In virtually every depiction of the Erroll murder to date, Alice is described, suspected, and cleared of suspicion. She is written about without any depth or explanation of her origins, her moods, her strengths and weaknesses. Her stunning beauty and great wealth is noted and then, in each instance, the author moves on. In Michael Radford’s 1987 film of Fox’s book, Alice was played by Sarah Miles, who portrayed her as an irresponsible and dizzy drug addict. The truth in such matters is, of course, always more complex and usually more interesting. Such was the case with Alice. (In fact, Alice never took drugs other than barbiturates for sleeping, relying on absinthe-spiked vodka cocktails for her highs.)

The more I read and investigated, the more I came to see that within the Alice legend were dozens of compelling anecdotes, inconclusive leads, and half-told stories. Through my research, I  discovered a woman who was, in fact, central—rather than peripheral—to the Erroll case. She seemed to me a figure worthy of further scrutiny, someone who needed to be placed in her full context. How did an American such as Alice end up in British colonial Africa? What was the nature of her affair with Joss? What hard evidence has ever been produced about the murder? What psychology has been deployed? According to anonymous letters sent to Jock Delves Broughton’s defense counsel during his trial, the assassin was, in fact, a discarded mistress.

One

The Heiress

ALICE DE JANZÉ WAS BORN ALICE SILVERTHORNE, at home in Buffalo, New York, on September 28, 1899. Home was an apppropriately extravagant and elaborate setting for the arrival of this little heiress who would one day grow up to become a countess. The year before her birth, Alice’s father, the Buffalo millionaire William Silverthorne, had bought a brand-new three-story redbrick Georgian Revival mansion on Delaware Avenue, also known as Millionaire’s Row. It was here that Alice was born and spent her early years. The house—designed by the preeminent Buffalo architects Esenwein and Johnson—was ostentatious, even by the standards of Millionaire’s Row. There were large Doric pillars around the main doorways, a maze of vast and elegant rooms inside, and stables and servants’ quarters at the bottom of a five-acre garden. William had made his fortune in the lumber trade and was eager to be counted among the most powerful in newly thriving Buffalo. His wife, Juliabelle Chapin, was a Chicago society beauty from one of the richest families in America, and she had brought to her marriage a considerable dowry and pedigree. The house was a monument to William’s successes, both financial and social.

Alice was christened at the local Presbyterian church two weeks after her birth. Her parents had been married and childless for more than seven years prior to Alice’s birth, and they were overjoyed by the arrival of their much-longed-for child. Such doting, wealthy parents ensured that their daughter’s very early years were marked by an extraordinary degree of privilege. From the beginning, the attention of an army of nurses and nannies was lavished upon Alice. William and Juliabelle were determined that their daughter would never want for anything in life, and they set about providing her with the very best that money could buy. Baby clothes were made especially in expensive fabrics imported from Paris. Juliabelle would take regular shopping trips to Chicago, New York, and Boston, where she would purchase vast quantities of gifts and toys for her little girl. As Alice grew from infant to child, her parents supervised her education at home, employing private governesses who instructed her in French, German, reading, writing, and basic arithmetic. For her seventh birthday, Alice was given her own pony and trap. There is a delightful photograph in existence of a seven-year-old Alice dressed in a short jacket and smock with a straw boater, sitting proudly in the wicker trap and holding the reins of the small black pony. By all accounts, the very young Alice was a carefree and affectionate child who adored her parents and was devoted to her pets.

Even so, the union between Alice’s parents was far from easy. Juliabelle and William had always been something of a mismatch. William was robust, energetic, and careless. Juliabelle was more fragile, physically and emotionally, and prone to prolonged periods of sadness. What’s more, they were both from very different social backgrounds. William was born in Pleasant Prairie, Iowa, on February 3, 1867, the third of seven children born to Albert David Silverthorne and Clara Frances Hodgkins, a solidly merchant class couple. William’s father had made his money in the lumber business in the period after Chicago’s Great Fire of 1871, when construction materials were at a premium. William himself had gone into the family business at a young age, working his way up through the ranks from the most menial of positions to the highest of managerial levels. He quickly proved himself to be a natural and talented businessman with a powerful drive for financial gain in this most socially and professionally mobile of cities. He was good-looking and popular, made friends easily, and enjoyed socializing, carousing, playing cards, and chasing girls.

Born on August 14, 1871, Juliabelle was the youngest daughter of the union between two of the most powerful and elite Chicago families of the nineteenth century, the Armours and the Chapins. Her mother, Marietta Armour, was the sister of the famous Chicagoan Philip Danforth Armour, who is still listed as one of the forty richest American men of all time. Thanks to her father, Emery David Chapin, Juliabelle was related to the Springfield Chapins, founders and benefactors of Springfield, Massachusetts. Her paternal grandfather had made his money from investing in the railroads in Springfield, but the Chicago faction of the Chapin family was also associated with the meatpacking industry, much like their friends and colleagues, the Armours. When Juliabelle’s parents married, the Chapins and the Armours were united by wedlock, and not for the first time. In fact, there had already been several weddings between Armours and Chapins in Chicago, and by the late nineteenth century, the two families had become the city’s equivalent of royalty: Society columns were full of gossip about the family and their appearances at weddings, debutante parties, and other social events.

From birth, Juliabelle had been groomed to marry a wealthy and influential husband. Needless to say, when William Silverthorne began to pursue her, the Armours and Chapins were far from impressed. Despite William’s quite significant wealth and promising career as an entrepreneur, the Armours and Chapins considered him a highly inappropriate match for one of the most eligible heiresses in Chicago. Even though William could trace his ancestors back to their arrival in Virginia from England in 1656, the Silverthornes had become affluent through business endeavors, such as making felt and selling lumber, and were therefore deemed socially inferior. Furthermore, the Armours and Chapins wholeheartedly disapproved of William’s reputation as a drinker, gambler, and ladies’ man. Undeterred, William courted Juliabelle relentlessly, pursuing her with the same zest, determination, and enthusiasm that he usually reserved for his business deals. Eventually, his good looks, charm, and persistence won the day and he quite simply swept Juliabelle off her well-heeled feet. The undivided disapproval of her family notwithstanding, Juliabelle and William were married in Chicago on January 8, 1892. It was a modest affair by Armour and Chapin standards, with only close family in attendance. Shortly afterward, the couple left for Buffalo, where William and his brother Asa had recently purchased their own lumberyard.

At the time, Buffalo was the eighth-largest city in the United States. By the early 1900s, it had a population of close to 400,000. Its proximity to Niagara Falls made it a popular tourist destination, and as a railway hub, it was an appealing and efficient center of commerce for the many entrepreneurs—William and Asa included—who flocked to the city in the 1890s in the hope of making their fortunes there. Juliabelle began setting up house, but William was doggedly determined to build up his business and was often away for long periods at a time, traveling across the country as far afield as Arkansas and Missouri in order to open new sawmills and set up plants. The seven years in which the couple failed to conceive a child were a period of enormous loneliness for Juliabelle, who found herself living far away from her home and family and with a husband who was frequently absent. Although the eventual birth of her daughter brought her a degree of fulfillment, it could not mend her fractured marriage.

In the years after Alice’s birth, Juliabelle and William were unable to conceive another child, and although Juliabelle adored her only daughter, she continued to feel dissatisfied with her life in Buffalo. To make matters worse, her health was failing: She was weak and permanently tired. Meanwhile, William continued his regimen of working and heavy socializing. He was drinking, gambling, and spending more and more time in Chicago. There were rumors that he was having affairs, possibly even one with Juliabelle’s cousin Louise Mattocks (a member of the Chapin clan). By the early part of 1907, Juliabelle was beside herself with unhappiness. She was now convinced that her husband and cousin were having a relationship. Gathering up her courage, she confronted William. What followed was a vicious argument, which culminated in William’s locking her out of the house at night in the middle of the icy Buffalo winter. Juliabelle was not readmitted until the morning. Shortly afterward, she was diagnosed with vascular laryngitis. She died six months later, on June 2, 1907, at the age of only thirty-five. William had his wife embalmed with surprising speed, and she was buried two days later, on June 4, 1907.

William now found himself living alone with a young and very unhappy daughter. Juliabelle’s death was a crushing blow to Alice, who was deeply attached to both parents but who had always spent so much time with her mother. To a seven-year-old girl who woke up one morning to find her mother gone, it was little compensation that Juliabelle had willed an enormous inheritance to her daughter, placed in trust until she reached the age of eighteen. The trustees of the will were Juliabelle’s father, her mother’s elder brother, Simeon B. Chapin (Uncle Sim), and her mother’s elder sister, Alice (Mrs. Francis May, known as Aunt Tattie). Meanwhile, in an effort to ease Alice’s confusion and moderate his feelings of guilt, William redoubled his efforts to spoil his only daughter completely. He fawned on Alice, taking her with him everywhere he went. After Juliabelle’s death, they traveled to Chicago together and