1950s: Outcry over death duty treasure haul

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Nicola Rippon reviews the year 1957 when the secret removal to London of many Derbyshire treasures to pay off crippling death duties caused uproar among local residents.

A MASSIVE fire at one of the county’s most important and world-acclaimed industrial concerns, a preoccupation with the drudgery of housework and a determination to give up the unhealthy habit of smoking – they were all issues that concerned the people of Derbyshire in 1957.

But it was the loss of many of the county’s rural treasures to the museums and establishments of London that would cause most reaction, particularly among Derbyshire’s country communities and their wealthier classes, and which would eventually have far-reaching effects on the way the nation viewed its stately homes, art treasures and its gentry.

The Derby Evening Telegraph of September 6, 1957, revealed that the 11th Duke of Devonshire had been forced to hand over to the Treasury some of his family’s estates and chattels in order to settle the death duties left by the 10th Duke.

Ironically, this system of death duties – in which tax was imposed upon all the land and personal property of a deceased person, rather than on the amount of property inherited by their beneficiaries – had been introduced by a Derby MP, the Liberal Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir William Harcourt, in 1894.

Since a large estate taxed as one entity would see more tax at the higher rates than that imposed on several smaller inheritances, the law had proved highly unpopular, particularly with the wealthy and aristocratic, many of whom who saw it as a personal attack on their class.

Many more also realised that, within a few generations, entire estates might be lost, having been carved up, piece by piece, to pay off various death duties.

The 9th Duke of Devonshire had been the first of his line to have to pay death duties and these had amounted to more than £500,000.

Coupled with significant debts left over from the failure of the 7th Duke’s business ventures, the family had already been forced to sell many precious possessions to settle their bills.

In 1912, many books, including rare first editions of Shakespeare, had been sold to a library in California. And, in 1920, Devonshire House and its lands in London’s Piccadilly had also been sold.

The 10th Duke’s sudden death seven years earlier, at the age of 55, had left huge death duties – at the maximum rate of 80 per cent tax – to be paid before his heirs could inherit.

Careful negotiations with the Treasury had established a plan by which this could be settled.

As the Evening Telegraph revealed, this meant the removal of seven art treasures, worth an estimated £1 million, to the British Museum in London.

Works by Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Holbein and Memlinc had been carefully removed from the house, under total secrecy, even while visitors toured other parts of the estate.

Indeed, so secret was the activity that the British Museum had already been displaying several items, including the head of Apollo cast in bronze, dating from around 485BC, the Book of Truth of Claude Lorrain, and the Van Dyck sketch book, even before the Evening Telegraph could reveal the move.

Other items were taken to the National Gallery and the National Portrait Gallery.

In addition, it was revealed that the Treasury was to receive the lovely Hardwick Hall, the personal creation of Bess of Hardwick. The hall, its contents, farms and estates would then be passed on to the National Trust.

Predictably, local reaction was strong. There was horror that such local treasures could be spirited away from Derbyshire and displayed in London.

A meeting of 13 local authorities was held in Matlock, where calls were made for the treasures to be retained in the north of England at least.

A more immediate drama, however, was to unfold in the heart of industrial Derby. On the morning of September 10, the Evening Telegraph reported in dramatic style: “Night Blaze Wrecks Derby Rail Shop Bays.”

The rail shop in question was the Carriage and Wagon Works in Litchurch, beside the Midland Station. One of the country’s most important railway manufactories, it had been established by the Midland Railway and had suffered severe damage during the First World War, in the Zeppelin raid of February 1916.

The flames from the 1957 fire could be seen from a great distance. The Evening Telegraph reported: “At the height of the blaze, which cast a glow in the sky visible for miles, flames leaped 50 feet into the air and threatened to engulf two other bays.”

Only the quick thinking of several employees had prevented further catastrophe. “Railway personnel succeeded in pulling clear some of the carriages undergoing repair in the affected bays – but others were quickly reduced to blackened, twisted steel frameworks, silhouetted against blazing wooden beams and smouldering debris.”

Derby’s deputy chief fire officer, Mr S B Jowett, who had taken charge of the fire fight, reported that, even though some 20 jets were aimed at the blaze, as well as two turntable ladders and 15 pumps being called into action, it had proved difficult to prevent the fire spreading further because the flames were being fanned by a stiff breeze.

Insufficient water supplies had also caused the fire brigade difficulties and hoses had to be stretched a quarter of a mile away to mains hydrants in London Road and to a pond at Ascot Drive.

Fortunately, no one was hurt in the fire which, initial evidence suggested, had been accidental. Early concerns that the damage might cause significant loss of business and affect local jobs were soon put at ease. “Men’s jobs safe,” the Evening Telegraph reassured workers and their families.

For local sports fans, 1957 proved a more satisfying year. At Easter, Derby County achieved promotion to the Second Division, after two seasons in the Third Division North. Derbyshire’s cricketers fared well against the West Indians. In June, they bowled out the tourists, whose team included the great Clyde Walcott, Frank Worrall and Sonny Ramadhin, for just 115 runs at Chesterfield.

There was to be no famous victory, however – the West Indians recovered to win by 173 runs.

The success of local people in the entertainment industry continued unabated. Derbyshire-born John Dexter joined the Royal Court Theatre as a director. He had been raised in Leyland Street, Derby, the son of a lorry driver, and had been educated at Gerard Street School, although he was somewhat sensitive about his roots.

His early life had given little indication of his talents. Dexter was a poor scholar and left school at 14 to work in a factory. After National Service, however, he turned to acting and found work in repertory in Derby and with the BBC, playing a village policeman in a new radio drama serial, The Archers.

In the mid-1950s, he had joined the staff of the Central School of Speech and Drama in London before taking on his new role. Although Dexter had little experience, his enthusiasm and imagination for this new direction was encouraging and he was thought by many to have the potential to become one of the greatest talents the country had produced.

At the turn of the year, the Evening Telegraph’s Derby and Joan column, which was aimed at its older readership, asked local people to reveal their New Year resolutions.

There seemed to be a common theme. Viscountess Scarsdale, of Kedleston Hall, declared: “I could give up smoking, but I’d never keep it up.”

Mrs J R Ratcliffe, Derby town councillor and prospective Conservative parliamentary candidate for Belper, was more positive: “I shall try to smoke less and try to do a little less grumbling.”

But Jack Longland, director of education for the county, was already regretting some of his resolutions, even though the[New Year was yet to arrive.

“I did say way back in November that I would give up smoking. Already I’ve learned that one shouldn’t make rash promises so far in advance, but we shall see.”

Derby and Joan had suggestions for local housewives. The New Year sales at Thurman and Malin, in St Peter’s Street, featured, according to their advertisement running beside the column, “many articles at half price or less... Bargains in all departments”.

At another sale, at John Plant, of Iron Gate, many brands of shoes would be “reduced by approximately 6s 8d”.

But Derby and Joan cautioned readers: “Take an honest fashion-eye view of yourself.”

The column also offered housekeeping advice: “See whether all your journeys back and forth through the house are really necessary... Sort the most used articles closer together...Buy aprons with larger pockets so that you can carry dusters...Stop reaching and stretching, or carrying heavy chairs... Invest in a lightweight stool with steps combined.”

Doubtless it was advice of which fellow contributor Ella Lewis Cox would have approved. In a feature that would certainly provoke a deluge of angry readers’ letters in the 21st century, Ms Cox pointed a controversial finger at lazy housewives.

Her article, entitled Queen of Leisure, claimed that no modern housewife should be tired at the end of the day. If they were, “then they have frittered away the day in order to fill it out with something to do... I believe that thousands of women are deliberately, if unconsciously, spoiling their enjoyment of life by their silly belief that housewifery is serfdom and marriage a sentence of hard labour”.

In what was doubtless intended as a compliment to the abilities of women everywhere, Ms Cox declared: “A woman’s capacity for work is enormous. This summer... I visited a farm (in France) where the wife ran the great old house, cooked on a wood fire, kept 300 head of poultry, brought up four children and was still able to take a two-hour siesta at midday and preside over a splendid evening meal as if she were a visitor. All she had to help her was a little maid servant.”

The fact that all this work was apparently divided between two women was, presumably, not lost on Ms Cox’s readers.

But Ms Cox’s claims were not without scientific back-up. “With the help of a time and motion study engineer, I have worked out the actual time involved in routine jobs on a normal day in a modern semi-detached house of three bedrooms and two reception rooms.”

Between 8.35am and 10.45am, Ms Cox estimated the housewife should have completed the following tasks: preparing breakfast for her husband and son and eating her own; clearing away the pots; hand-washing some clothing; cleaning the kitchen; tidying, vacuuming and dusting the living room; cleaning the hall and stairs; making the beds; cleaning the bedrooms and spare room; and cleaning the bathroom, landing and toilet.

The housewife that Ms Cox had embroiled in her time and motion study was clearly unhappy with the conditions. She had wanted to enjoy a third cup of tea, read the newspaper, listen to a favourite song on Housewives’ Choice, natter to a neighbour while hanging out the washing, and so on.

Ms Cox, it seemed, had pointed out to her that, rather than complain, she should be grateful that she was not at work in a factory, as many of her “sisters” were. Their work would not be over by mid-morning.

Certainly, it was true that the introduction of labour-saving devices had made the work of the average British housewife much less back-breaking, but it would be some years before she might look forward to spending most of her life outside of the home and its responsibilities.

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