Lord Lucan | Born Lucky | 1
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Hi, Matt. Oh, God, sorry. OK, we'll start again. Hi, Matt. Oh, what? What are you doing? Well, I'm trying to host a series, mate. Oh, it's your turn? Yes! This bodes well. It's 9.50pm, 7th November 1974, south-west London. A woman runs through a smart residential street in Belgravia. She wears a pinafore dress and jumper. Her bare feet splash through the puddles on the pavement as she gathers pace.

Blood seeps through a cut on her head. It dirties her long blonde hair and drips into her eyes. She doesn't even notice. She has no idea where she's going. All she knows is she daren't stop until she finds help. The woman reaches the Plumber's Arms public house at the end of the street. The warm glow of light inside fills her with relief. She bursts through the door and takes in the small group of drinkers scattered around the room. The full force of what happened hits her.

She begins to scream. The drinkers abruptly stop their conversations. The barman rushes over to her. What's happened, love? Veronica Lucan looks up at him, eyes full of fear. She feels shaky and cold. The floor seems to disappear beneath her and she collapses into the barman's arms. Everything goes black. I mean, you would think of a London boozer as a sanctuary, wouldn't you? That would be where you would head. Yes, easy to get into and loads of people that could help. And scampi fries and pints.

When Veronica comes round, she's lying on one of the pub's well-worn settees, a heavy blanket over her. Several concerned faces stare down at her, the barman being one of them. Oh, bloody hell, you had us worried, dear. For a moment, Veronica forgets where she is and what just happened. But then it comes flooding back. Overwhelmed, she blurts it out. I've just escaped a murderer. He killed my nanny, then he attacked me. The barman and the punters eye each other, alarmed.

There's speculation over where the man is, mutters of calling the police. Comforting words directed Veronica's way. Someone places a glass of brandy in her hand. Did you get a look at him? The fella who did this? Veronica swallows hard. She doesn't want to say the words, doesn't want to believe it, but she knows it has to be true. She saw him with her own eyes. It was my husband, Lord Lucan. Oh, my God.

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As summer winds down, let your imagination soar by listening on Audible. Whether you listen to stories, motivation, expert advice, any genre you love, you can be inspired to imagine new worlds, new possibilities, new ways of thinking. With Audible, there's more to imagine when you listen.

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As an Audible member, you choose one title a month to keep from their entire catalogue. New members can try Audible free for 30 days. Visit audible.com slash WonderyPod or text WonderyPod to 500-500. That's audible.com slash WonderyPod or text WonderyPod to 500-500. From Wondery, I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. And this is British Scandal.

The show where we bring you the murkiest stories that ever happened on these odd little aisles. British scandals come in many shapes and sizes. Some are about money, some are about sex. They're all about power. But when we look at scandals a little bit closer, they turn out to be stranger, wilder and just plain weirder than we remember. So we're journeying back to ask who's to blame for what happened. And when the dust settled, did anything really change? MUSIC

Alice, we're staying in the 1970s. Yes, not like us to hang around in the same era, but it's a big old decade. So you've got punk, which we've covered, if you haven't listened, very remiss. And now, of course, the brutal murder of a young woman by a preening aristocrat.

Yes, this is the story of Lord Lucan and I think just like Profumo it's one of those names that everyone's heard of they know it's connected to scandal but they might not know every detail of this incredible story. I'm certainly one of those people I feel like I have a grip on the headlines but I really don't

know the granular details of this one. And the headlines are that Lord Lucan, a rich aristocratic lord, tried to kill his wife, ended up killing the nanny and then vanished into thin air. And to this day, people still don't know whether he's dead or alive. But this story is more than just a murder mystery. It's about the class system in this country, the aristocracy, and what they can get away with. So in other words, this is the perfect British scandal. Exactly. This is episode one.

Born lucky. It's 1949, Berkshire. In a wood-panelled drawing room, a group of boys in smart black school blazers huddle around a battered transistor radio. They listen intently to the crackly voice coming through the speaker. A tall 15-year-old enters. Richard John Bingham, known as John, is the son of the 6th Earl of Lucan.

Here at Eton, he's nothing special. Royals, landed gentry and future prime ministers are de rigueur at this famous public school. John should fit in. He's a member of the aristocracy after all. But after two weeks, he's struggling to make friends. He has a shyness unusual in a boy of his breeding. His breeding? I don't feel good about that. Despite his father's earldom, his parents are committed socialists. His family are nothing short of pariahs in many upper-class circles.

John wouldn't even be at Eton if his parents hadn't thought he needed the extra attention. I mean, they don't feel like committed socialists. No, it's an odd way to express your belief the establishment should be torn down by investing in it. They've got the old, they're sending their kid to Eton, but we are really, really committed. John gazes at the group with the radio. The eldest boy glances up at him, then quickly mutters something to his friends.

They all laugh. John doesn't know if it's about him, but he's stung. He turns to leave, but something stops him. Instead of retreating, wounded, he sits at the table next to them. The eldest boy turns it off, annoyed. I knew Rake would romp it! Do you realise how much we'd have made if we'd had a flutter? What this place needs is a bookie! John's eyes light up. Fighting his nerves, he forces himself to speak. He injects his voice with all the authority he can muster. Couldn't help overhearing...

I happened to notice a runner doing business in the village the other day. I'm sure I could track him down again if you'd like me to. John's never put a bet on in his life, but he's seen friends of his parents do it. How hard can it be? And this is the point in the story where it all falls down. I feel like there's always a point in a British scandal story where you're like, just don't do it. Just go back to bed, read your magazine, leave it there. You'll be for it if you get caught. John knows he's right.

Gambling's not just against school rules, it's against the law for boys his age. But he can't lose face by backing down now. The next day, John sits awkwardly in a beaten up car. Beside him, a weasel-like man puffs on a cigar. They listen intently to the race on the radio. John has put all of the boys' money on a single horse. He picked one at random. He has no idea if it even stands a chance. Sounds like a good strategy.

I would only go on name. Okay, so if it was called British Scandal in the 310 at Epsom. I'd be like, why did we buy a horse and why was I not consulted? Adrenaline courses through his body as the horses charge down the final furlong. He thinks his heart might actually pound out of his chest. He waits for the commentator to name the first horse to cross the finish line.

To John's amazement, it's the one he chose. The bookmaker hands John several one-shilling notes. Winnings. It's not even his money, but John feels a rush of elation he's never experienced before. And then he went on to be a perfectly secure, completely well-adjusted young man. It was the last bet he ever put on. That was it. When the fun stops, stop.

Entering the common room, he strides over to the older boy and hands him some cash. The boy barely looks up from his card game. Nice work, Bingham. John knows better than to outstay his welcome. He returns to his dorm deflated. But later, there's a knock at the door. John opens it, and the gang pile in, clutching a bottle of gin. Thought you deserved a drink, old chap. They fill a glass for John. He hesitates. The eldest boy eyeballs him, almost daring him.

John's never drunk alcohol before, but then he reminds himself. He'd never placed a bet before today either. Look how that turned out. Vodka Red Bull is the way to ease yourself in. I mean, straight gin. I mean, this is why Blue Wicked was invented. Surely. This is the way that Alka-Pops built their empires. He takes the glass and knocks the gin back in one to roars of approval and slaps on the back. It burns his throat and he feels like throwing up. He doesn't show it.

Instead, he holds out his glass for another. The boys sit, making themselves comfortable. One takes out a pack of cards and starts shuffling. John feels the rush of adrenaline return. He doesn't know if it's the camaraderie or the new hobby he's just discovered, but he's finally found what he's been looking for. Is the hobby alcoholism or the betting? I guess both together as one great big hobby. What a pastime.

It's four years later, March 1963, Buckinghamshire. Veronica Duncan yawns as she watches the golfers at her sister Christina's grand new home, Horton Hall. The wayfish 26-year-old doesn't know why she was invited today. She hates the sport and feels totally out of place. She suspects it's her sister's way of showing off. Christina has just wed wallpaper heir Bill Shand Kidd.

Veronica's family, average middle class, has never known wealth like this. In truth, Veronica's a little envious. She's in awe of her grand surroundings and would love a bit of what Christina's now got, but she fears it's slipping out of reach. As the older sister, Veronica was expected to marry first. With her doll-like face and blonde hair, she knows she's pretty, but she's always been a loner. She finds courting awkward and difficult,

So when Bill says he wants her to meet a friend of his, she's desperate to escape. Actually, I think I'm going to go home. Veronica pushes herself up from the table. As she does, a man's hand gently rests on her arm. You can't stay just a little longer? Red flag. For the impression or for what he said? Both. One for you, one for him. Veronica slowly looks up. She's almost breathless as she takes the man in.

At an imposing 6ft 2 with a thick black moustache, John Bingham is quite possibly the most attractive and debonair man Veronica has ever met.

So wait, is this Lord Lucan? Yes, but he's not Lord Lucan yet. OK, but he is Debonair. Yes, and he was so handsome, he was actually screen-tested for the first Bond film, Doctor No. Oh, so she's not just head over heels, he's a bona fide sex god. Oh, this is real. And right now, Veronica is amazed to find he's only got eyes for her. I noticed you at Bill's wedding. I asked if he would introduce us today. I hoped you wouldn't mind. Not at all.

As a butler passes by with a tray of champagne, John grabs them a couple of flutes. He invites Veronica to sit with him at a nearby table. "All I know about you is you're Christine's sister. Tell me more." Veronica's flattered by John's interest in her. She finds herself opening up more than usual. She tells him about being sent to boarding school after the death of her father when she was two. "Such a young age. How awful."

I found it hard to feel connected after that to her or Christina. I always felt like the odd one out. Veronica blushes, feeling she's said too much. I tend to agree. John doesn't seem put off, though. If anything, he seems more interested. There's nothing wrong with that. Why conform? It's so dull being like everyone else, don't you think? Veronica's pleasantly surprised. She expected an Erlin waiting to be more aloof, more entrenched in tradition. What about you? I expect your upbringing was terribly grand.

Oh yes, the usual aristo life. Gold rattles in the nursery. Asp milk for breakfast. Veronica giggles. I didn't know whether to laugh because I didn't know whether he was serious or not. I have no idea either. But there's something in John's eyes, a slight sadness, that makes her think he's not telling her the full story. It's the first date, my darling. Let it play out. Sounds perfect. Too perfect, in fact. She stays on him, willing him to be honest. Finally, he nods.

"'Actually, it wasn't quite like that. I was evacuated during the war. Felt quite peculiar when I returned. Silly, really. Not silly. Why conform, right?' Now John shares her smile, conspiratorial, then quickly moves on. "'Well, I'm afraid the rest is frightfully predictable. Eton, a stint with the Coldstream guards, then a job at Brant's Bank. But it wasn't for me.' "'So what do you do now?'

Veronica waits for John to answer. He gives her an enigmatic smile. Suddenly stands up. I'm afraid I must be off. Veronica can barely hide her disappointment. If you really want to know, you'll just have to see me again. Oh, smart move. He knows what he's doing. Relief surges through Veronica. But she plays it cool. I'll check my diary. A classic line. After John has left, Veronica raves about him to Christina. She expects her sister to share her excitement.

But instead, Christina looks worried. I don't want to be a wet blanket V, but John's a bit of a gambling man, a risk taker. So what? Isn't Bill? I thought that's how they knew each other. For Bill, it's a hobby. For John, it's a way of life. He quit his day job after winning a cards fee. He gambles for a living now. He's a bit of a playboy. Veronica's taken aback, but she can't help feel a twinge of excitement.

John may be the professional gambler, but Veronica has already gone all in. See what he did there? She's betting everything on him and she's determined not to lose. Right, I can't just stop now. It's three months later, June 1963, Eton Square, London. John can't help but feel embarrassed as he shows Veronica around his parents' home. The Victorian townhouse seems grand enough at first sight, but inside the wallpaper is faded and peeling.

The furniture is scratched, the upholstery threadbare. His parents refuse to spend any money on upkeep. Instead, they donate all their cash to various Labour Party causes. Oh, that is not what I thought you were going to say. But John has always embraced his aristocratic heritage, enjoying the respect and reverence it commands, including from Veronica, which is why he hopes his parents will make an effort at their first meeting with her tonight.

But to John's horror, they've barely started dinner when his mother launches into one of her socialist diatribes about the curse of privilege and the growing need for equality. I'm sorry, Mother, but that's tosh. Don't talk down to your mother that way, John. To John's shock, Veronica, who's been quiet all evening, suddenly pipes up.

Why shouldn't he? You're denying your birthright. You still live in a big house and use your big title. It seems to me that you want to have your cake and eat it. Oh, shots fired. John takes in his mother and father as they stare at Veronica speechless. He's impressed by the new side he's seeing. She is fragile in appearance, but with a core of inner steel. Veronica seems horrified by the altercation. She pushes back her chair, hurries from the room.

Perhaps you should leave her be. She's a very pretty girl, very spirited. Don't you think at 29 you should be looking for someone to settle down with? Has spirited ever been more of a dagger through the heart? Why wouldn't I want to settle down with Veronica?

I hardly think... What? That she's not the right class? Surely you of all people wouldn't object to my marrying down? Throwing his napkin on the table, John goes to join Veronica in the hallway. He grabs her hand and smiles at her, a twinkle in his eye. Come on, let's get out of here. The night's still young. I've told you once, I won't tell you again. I hate that sexy voice. An hour later, Barclay Square, SW1. Veronica glides into the Claremont Club on John's arm.

Her eyes widen as she takes in the opulent surroundings. Painted in deep reds and pinks, with a freestanding staircase winding down the centre of the vast room, the place is like something out of a fairy tale. It couldn't be further away from John's parents' tired house and frugal lifestyle. Oh, John, it's beautiful. This is home. Is that what you say when you walk in the door? Of Greg's. Veronica instantly gets why John loves this private club.

Here, he can feel like the aristocrat he was born to be. Oh, good for him. I was feeling really sorry for him that there weren't enough spaces for him to feel like the aristocrat he was born to be. A tall man appears at the top of the staircase, a tiger cub by his side. To gasps from some of the assembled onlookers and chuckles and applause from others, he leads the big cat downstairs on a leash. Veronica's eyes widen at the sight. She clings to John as man and cub approach them.

Veronica, this is my very good friend, John Aspinall, owner of the Claremont. Sorry, the man or the cub? Aspinall takes in Veronica's nervous expression, then gestures to the cub. Don't worry about Monty, he's just a baby. Lovely to meet you, my dear. Lucky has told me all about you. There's something about this man that puts Veronica on edge. He exudes arrogance and superiority.

But Veronica reminds herself she has already stood up to a lord and lady this evening. She's sure she can handle this fellow. She smiles at him. Politeness personified. Lucky? It's what we call him here, ever since he won £40,000 in a game of baccarat. I imagine you feel like you've had a similar win, meeting such an eligible chap. Veronica bristles. John steers her away from his friend. Take no notice of John. He's a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to ladies in the club. He'd prefer them to stay at home.

Oh, God, puke. Imagine actually saying that to someone. Flattered, Veronica sits behind him at the baccarat table. John plays for hours, but she doesn't mind. She loves how assured he is at the table. When he wins, she claps her hands and beams at him proudly. It's the early hours of the morning by the time they leave.

They stand in the cold night air, waiting for a taxi. John turns to face her. I think you know by now, Veronica, that this is my life. Yes, but what my mother said earlier about me being expected to marry, provide an heir, that's all true. If being my wife is something you'd consider, I promise you would want for nothing. This is moving quickly. Veronica throws her arms around John, overwhelmed.

Maybe Aspinall was right, because at this moment she does feel like she's won a prize. She's going to be the wife of Richard John Bingham, Lady Lucan, and they are going to have a wonderful life together. The end. Thank you so much for joining us.

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It's December 1963, 4am, Istanbul. Veronica opens her eyes. The dark room comes into focus. She takes in the moonlight through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the cool feel of silk bedsheets against her skin. Never get why that's luxurious. Gross. I totally agree. They get too hot. Oh, horrible. Now she remembers where she is. On her honeymoon, the new Mrs Bingham smiles as she reaches out to touch her husband.

But he's not there. She finds him at the other end of their lavish honeymoon suite, playing backgammon. What are you doing up at this hour? John barely glances at her, engrossed in his game. Couldn't sleep. Just practicing. Go back to bed. Veronica won't be dismissed so easily. She sits beside John, softening her expression. She tilts his head up towards her and eyes him, flirtatious. There are other things one can do if one can't sleep.

John slams one of his counters down on the board. Damn it, woman! I'm trying to concentrate! Shaken, Veronica hurries back to bed. This is a side of her new husband she hasn't seen before. In fact, John's been distant since the wedding. The day itself was modest but lovely, with a few royals like Princess Alice in attendance. That's what we call you on the WhatsApp group you're not on. Princess Alice is running late again. OK, that was too close to the bone.

But John was quiet during their journey here on the Orient Express. And since they arrived in Istanbul, he seemed distracted. Okay, but seriously, that is the shortest honeymoon period ever. He was distant from the wedding onwards. To her surprise, he abandons his game and joins her. I'm sorry, darling, I've neglected you. Is it something I've done? John looks horrified at the idea. He pulls her close.

I mean, look, I'm a homebody, I get it, but you are just on holiday, you're only away from the club for, what, a week or two? Veronica doesn't think like that at all. She feels it too.

They've bought a new house in Belgravia and Veronica's been itching to get back there and make it their home. Why don't we go back early? We could fly. Save spending another week on that ghastly train. It's exactly East Midlands trains at rush hour, is it? The Orient Express, the most decadent way to travel. The lap of luxury.

What would people say? Who cares? We have each other now. We do things our way. I knew there was a reason I married you. John draws her close. Veronica rests her head against his chest, feeling the closeness between them return. She's certain that if they're united, they can get through anything. The 21st of January, 1964, Barclay Square. At the Claremont, John throws his cards down in frustration.

He's just lost his second game of the night. This time, it's £8,000 down the pan. Ooh, that is a stinger. As John's friend, Greville Howard, scoops up his winnings. Aspinall pats John on the back. Never mind, Lucky. I'm not so sure you should still be calling me that. Nonsense. Everyone has their off days. Aspinall sits down and lights Lucky's cigarette. I will need you to settle your debts with the club soon, though. Doesn't do to play favourites.

Of course. I'm thinking of setting up a regular baccarat game. You could be one of the dealers. It would mean more hours in the club, but you'd get a cut. Even when he's losing, John feels fortunate to have this place. His friends here have got his back. That is a very generous way of looking at it. Some might say it's quite self-serving to keep him there, and a better friend would say, maybe stop gambling for a bit. Yes, but this is John Aspinall we're talking about, who obviously runs the Claremont Club, and when he opened it,

He said, and this is a direct quote, Jesus, what a guy. John is in a quandary. He barely sees Veronica, who is busy spending vast sums doing up their house. John's never even tried to stop gambling. But if he cuts his losses, maybe even takes a conventional job for a while, he can stop his debts spiralling.

Thanks, old boy, but I think I'll pass. In fact, I'd best get going. Promise the wife an early night. Still needs an air, you know. Oh, God, too much detail. I mean, in a way, it's quite a sweet way of saying... We're going for a bonk-a-thon. Yeah. Slam sesh tonight. John winks at Aspinall, expecting him to laugh. Instead, his friend gives him an icy glare, then shrugs. Well, the offer's there, should you tire of domestic bliss.

I did not expect him to be called Pat.

As you know, the earldom passes to you and the responsibilities that come with it. At that moment, John remembers what else comes with the earldom. His father's entire fortune, along with trusts giving him a generous annual income. Oh yeah, he just remembered that. Oh, I just remembered the other thing about all the money and the stuff, yeah. John Bingham hasn't just become the seventh Earl of Lucan.

This twist of fate means he can have it all. A home life with his wife and enough money to maintain his high-risk lifestyle. Rather than having to give up one love for another, his father's death means John can raise the stakes higher than ever. Well, that's all good news then. Apart from the devastating news of your dad's death. It's up, up, up.

It's November 1967, Suffolk. In the exclusive owner's enclosure at Newmarket Racecourse, Veronica watches as her horse, Bombproof, comes in second. Her husband flings his betting slip down in frustration. Their three-year-old daughter, Frances, looks at him worried. Veronica sees him paint on a smile, covering his anger. The couple's newborn, George, sleeps peacefully in his pram nearby.

To the outside world, they look every inch the perfect family. But Veronica has been depressed since Francis was born. And George's arrival only intensified her hopelessness. John's been spending so much time at the club, he's barely noticed. Seeing John put his jacket on, she decides it's time to speak up.

Don't go back to the Claremont tonight. Stay out with us. We could stop at Hyde Park on the way home, go for a walk, talk to each other. Talk to each other? She is asking a lot. We're married, Veronica. The whole point of marriage is you don't have to talk to the other person anymore. I think me and John would get on. It's a typical response from John. She might have laughed a few years ago, but not anymore. Feeling increasingly isolated, she won't give up.

Please. Darling, I've already promised the boys I'll be there. Go to the park with Lillian.

Veronica eyes their nearby nanny. Lillian Jenkins is middle-aged with several years' experience. She only makes Veronica feel more inept and pathetic. If anything, she wants time away from her. She gets another idea. I could leave the children with Lillian and come with you tonight, just like old times. I used to be your lucky charm, remember? She stays on John, hopeful. He's hesitant, but finally nods. Veronica beams at him. Maybe she's just a little bit too young for him.

Maybe talking isn't the answer. It never is. It never ever is. Maybe all she needs is to go back to the club. They can recapture the good old days, the glamorous couple they used to be. It might even snap her out of her malaise, make her feel like she did before the children came along. Veronica's sure that a night out will see her and John united again in no time. Feels too easy, doesn't it? Later that evening, at the Claremont, John takes his regular seat at the table.

He glances over to Veronica as she sits behind him, then gestures to the dealer to begin their regular game of chemin de fer. John hopes she's right about being his lucky charm, but suddenly he hears her shouting. Why are you staring at my husband? John turns around to see Veronica ranting at another woman. He's mortified. Aspinall comes over to him.

You really must control your wife. It won't do to have fur flying at the tables, says the bloke who paraded a large cat around the place. It wasn't a large cat, it was a big cat. I was like, oh wow, that's a large cat. It's like, it's a big cat. Veronica eyeballs John, clearly waiting for him to defend her. But John feels only irritation, betrayal even.

If his wife is going to be here, she should support, not sabotage him. Dare I say, seen and not heard. Veronica, if you can't behave, I must insist you sit downstairs. Oh, this is so humiliating. John directs his gaze towards the plush settee by the bottom of the staircase. It's nicknamed Widow's Bench because it's where the wives are usually relegated to while their husbands play. I don't think I want to be a member of this club. I don't think I would have been allowed to anyway, would I?

And rightly so. Alice, when I'm doing a podcast, can you please support and not sabotage me? I can't guarantee that. John has never asked Veronica to sit there before, but he sticks to his guns. Veronica slowly makes her way down the grand staircase and dutifully sits down. She looks up at John and starts to cry. Some of the other members look away out of embarrassment.

John glances at Aspinall, who glares at Veronica with utter content. Oh, he's just awful, isn't he? A few years ago, John might have gone down there, comforted her. But now he sees her through hardened eyes. He's going through hell, and he needs a wife who can be strong for him, keep it together. John turns his back on Veronica and focuses on his game. Finally forced to choose between gambling and his wife, he's chosen his first love, for better or worse.

Oh, this is so dark. This season, Instacart has your back to school. As in, they've got your back to school lunch favorites, like snack packs and fresh fruit. And they've got your back to school supplies, like backpacks, binders, and pencils. And they've got your back when your kid casually tells you they have a huge school project due tomorrow.

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but her hand is shaking so much she can't hold the pot in place. A man's hand gently rests on hers, steadying it. He smiles kindly at Veronica as the tea finally hits its target. Veronica locks up at Greville Howard. The boyishly handsome 26-year-old may be one of her husband's Claremont cronies, but she's always found him to be helpful and charming.

And over the last few months, his support has meant the world. Is that a euphemism? Hmm? That sounds very suspect to me, Matthew. Since the night John made her sit on Widow's bench, her anxiety and depression have worsened. Rather than sympathising, John has merely treated her as an inconvenient problem to solve. He has even tried to persuade her to check in at the local psychiatric hospital. You can't help but feel that's just what suits him rather than what's good for her.

Veronica fears his next step is to have her committed by force. Oh my God. So she's agreed to take medication prescribed by a visiting psychiatrist.

But the lithium and flufenazine she's taking only seems to have made her worse. A bit of me worries that there's some gaslighting going on here and that she's not actually as ill as these medications would suggest. Veronica hates the pills, but they seem to have got John off her back. Which is a good reason to take medication, isn't it? Because your behaviour was slightly annoying your husband. He's even commented on how much brighter she looks. But Veronica knows the real reason for that.

Greville. Told you. While John has drifted further away, spending more time than ever at the club, her and Greville have been getting closer and closer. His visits have brought new meaning to her life. Hearing a car pull up outside, Greville goes over to the window. He glances at Veronica, worried. Lucky's back. Veronica's anxious. It's not like John to come home during the day.

When John enters, Greville quickly fumbles to explain his presence. What good fortune you popping home, old chap. I just came to ask if the pair of you would like to come to dinner soon. John looks slowly from Greville to Veronica. She's sure he must be suspicious. After a moment, he breaks into a smile, seemingly unperturbed. Yes, let's get something in the diary. How is Zoe?

Veronica bristles at the reference to Greville's wife. Her heart sinks further when John offers to walk his friend out. She's been denied the chance of a warm goodbye. Warm goodbye noted. From the window, she watches the pair chat outside for a few minutes. Greville looks up and catches her eye, then quickly averts his gaze, awkward. Veronica bites her lip, a bad feeling engulfing her. All evening, Veronica can't stop thinking about it.

Finally, she calls Greville. He's uncharacteristically short with her. Veronica is distraught. When John comes home later, she confronts him. What did you say to Greville when he left?

I have no idea what you're talking about. You're very paranoid these days, Veronica. Maybe we need to re-look at your medication. Oh my God, this guy is dangerous. I don't want any more pills. The only thing sending me mad is you. I can't talk to you when you're this hysterical. I mean, that is the classic script for gaslighting, isn't it? Before she can challenge him, John leaves the room. Greville was the only light in her life and now he's gone.

She goes into the bathroom and takes her pills out of the cabinet. She empties them down the toilet, quickly flushing them away. Not taking them can't make her feel any worse than she does right now. It's two years later, autumn 1970, Barclay Square. John Aspinall looks around the Claremont Club, proudly taking in the view. Only one thing spoils it today, the sight of Veronica Lucan on Widow's Bench. Oh God, she's not come back for more, has she?

Why she still insists on following her husband here is beyond Aspinall. Lucky clearly doesn't want her around, and neither does anyone else. This is so sad. Aspinall watches her tap her foot on the floor relentlessly, a side effect of her new medication. It's no secret she's been on more pills since the birth of her third child. Aspinall thinks Veronica is such a drain, not only on Lucky's energy, but also his financial resources.

Her constant need for medical care and attention is leaving her husband with less time and money for gambling in his club. And that simply won't do. He is truly the absolute pits. As if to make his point, Veronica starts arguing with a woman nearby. She hurls the contents of her wine glass in the woman's face. Having been alerted to the fracas, Lucky races down the stairs and tries to calm Veronica down.

He's so malevolent. Jeez, this guy. They've just had a baby. Lucky seems shocked by Aspinall's lack of sympathy.

"I can't. She'll get the children, the mother always does. I can't trust her with them. Not in that state." "I have no doubt a man of your means and intelligence can find a way to get custody." Aspinall walks away. He hopes his words will be the push Lucky needs to take action. With her erratic behavior and displays of heightened emotion, Veronica is a symbol of all Aspinall wants to keep out of the Claremont.

he will do everything he can to help his friend cut the cord. Why do I feel like it's less about propriety and more about the money? Because you are an excellent judge of character. Thank you. And deeply cynical. Stop. It's January 1973, Lower Belgrave Street.

John tries to hold Veronica away from him as she pounds her fists on his chest, screaming. ''I could have been scolded, scarred for life! You did this on purpose!'' ''I did no such thing!'' ''First you hide my shoes to confuse me, then you run the bath too hot!'' John is used to Veronica's daily accusations by now. He sighs in response. ''As I've said countless times, it's all in your imagination!'' ''That's what you want me to think! You're trying to send me mad!''

I actually don't know what to believe. I don't know how much truth there is to that. It's one of the really difficult things with this story. Because the accounts differ so much, no one really knows. But we do know Veronica had periods of instability and mental illness. It's just whether John encouraged these, whether her medication played a part, we just don't know. Well, I mean, it feels quite clear that he definitely treated her badly. Yes.

Things have gone from bad to worse these last few weeks. First, Veronica fired long-term nanny Lillian. Then they had a miserable Christmas with his in-laws. John realises Aspinall was right. He has to take action to free himself from this burden. How he's written this narrative so that he's the victim somehow is absolutely unbelievable. He calls the family's GP practice...

I need the doctor to make a house call. It's urgent. Veronica wouldn't go voluntarily to the psychiatric hospital, so now he's going to take the decision out of her hands.

He's confident he can convince their GP, Dr Flood, to have her committed. Then he'll have a good chance of keeping the children. It's a particularly creepy and evil way of exercising your privilege. Oh, I've kind of got a doctor on the payroll who'll do my bidding. Yeah, and to think through the chess moves like that and think, well, if I want kids, I'm going to have to have her committed, so I'm going to have to do it.

Within the hour, a doctor turns up. But to John's disappointment, it's not Dr. Flood. It's a young medic who has never examined Veronica before. Lucan takes him aside. He speaks with authority. I demand you declare my wife unfit to look after our children and have her committed. It's the only course of action left. The doctor seems taken aback by John's harsh manner. John watches him as he glances over at Veronica, who now looks like vulnerability personified.

John's convinced it's an act to gain sympathy, and it seems to be working. I can't do anything until I've examined Lady Lucan. In private. John has no choice but to concur. He waits downstairs for what feels like hours. Finally, the doctor emerges. I've spoken to your wife at length. From what I can see, she's a fit mother. She simply needs more rest and a change of medication. John is speechless. The GP hands him a prescription and bids him farewell.

When Veronica appears in front of him, she's practically gloating. "I told you I'm not crazy!" John rises to his feet, his hands clenched into fists. But he has no intention of striking her. He races past her and up the stairs, throws some belongings into a travel bag. Veronica appears in the doorway. "Where are you going?" John doesn't answer her. The truth is, he doesn't know. Heading back onto the landing, he glances at the door of the nursery.

John's heart breaks as he thinks about the children he's leaving behind, but he has no choice. Slamming the large front door behind him, John knows his marriage is over. He promises to himself he will get his children out of his wife's clutches, whatever it takes. This is the first episode in our series, Lord Lucan.

If you like our show, please give us a five-star rating and a review. And be sure to tell your friends. You can listen to new episodes one week early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app. Subscribe on Apple Podcasts, Amazon Music, the Wondery app, or wherever you're listening right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app to listen for free. In the episode notes, you'll find some links and offers from our sponsors. Please support them.

By supporting them, you help us offer you this show for free. Another way to support us is to answer a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, books include A Different Class of Murder by Laura Thompson, A Moment in Time by Veronica Lucan, and The Gamblers by John Pearson. I'm Matt Ford.

She struck him with her motor vehicle. She had been under the influence and then she left him there.

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