95 Piccadilly
PROTECTED CONTENT
If you’re a current subscriber, log in below. If you would like to subscribe, please click the subscribe tab above.
Username and Password Help
Please enter your email and we will send you a password reset link.
I recently watched “The Murder of Sandra Rivett,” a documentary that revisited the murder case that shocked the British establishment in the 1970s. A case that has long fascinated amateur sleuths and captivated the world’s press. Rivett, whom the documentary – with good reason – seeks to humanize, served as nanny to Lord and Lady Lucan, two historical figures whose notoriety has nearly obscured her name from history.
What role either Lucan played in the events of that November evening remains a matter of dispute and shrouded in mystery. Perhaps now lost to time. What is certain is that Rivett’s life was cut far too short, brutally beaten to death in the basement of the Lucans’ home in Belgravia, that ultra-posh corner of London lying between the City of Westminster and the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea.
The principals in this drama seemed almost too perfectly cast. Athletic and dashing, John Bingham, the Seventh Earl of Lucan – known to friends as “Lucky” – was a renowned playboy and gambler. Perhaps that’s one reason he feels familiar to me. In some respects, he reminds me of my father. The athleticism, the appetite for risk, the fast cars, the gambling, the confidence. Though separated by “the pond,” the type remains. Legend insists he was even considered as an inspiration for James Bond. By contrast, his wife Veronica was petite, blonde, elegant, and by many accounts fragile in both temperament and health. Their marriage had deteriorated in the most public of fashions, leaving them embroiled in a bitter custody battle over their three children.
At a time when such matters remained deeply embarrassing, Lady Lucan made allegations in court that were eagerly consumed by the press. Newspapers carried every lurid detail. Their lives were public spectacle. Though subject to certain conditions, Lady Lucan was granted custody of the children. One of those conditions was that a nanny had to be employed. Enter Sandra Rivett, who had been in that position for only eight weeks when she was attacked.
Perhaps part of the reason the story continues to fascinate is that it represents the twilight of a particular age. The last, perhaps, of its kind. Modern commentators often treat the affair as a morality play about class and privilege, and I suppose there is some truth in that, but it is hardly full in its interpretation, and what fascinates me is not merely the mystery but the milieu. Lucan belonged to a class that modern society both romanticizes and deeply (and perhaps unfairly) condemns. The truth is, every society develops hierarchies, whether acknowledged or not. The British system of yesteryear simply had the honesty to admit it.
Indeed, for me, there is something admirable in a social order that understands continuity, inheritance, duty, and place. The historic aristocracy produced its share of scoundrels, gamblers, and eccentrics, but it also produced institutions, traditions, and a sense of stewardship that endured across generations. The same society that produced a Lord Lucan also produced Winston Churchill and countless men and women who regarded privilege not merely as an advantage but as an obligation. Noblesse oblige.
Perhaps those contrasts that seem to sit between worlds are why the case endures – an unsolved murder, a vanished aristocrat, and a world built on tradition, discretion, and hierarchy.