If you are a clever lad who knows his history, the name of the town where I live might ring a bell. It's called Lucan. That's also the name of this family of Brit aristocrats, two of whom have interesting stories that are worth knowing.
The first famous Lucan, the fellow who made the name a household word in his day, was the Third Lord Lucan. He made it a household word in the same time and place as Lord Raglan and Lord Cardigan. The sweaters those two popularized in The Crimean War were the only good things to come out of that utter bollox, other than Florence Nightengale creating The Red Cross. The Crimean War's uselessness and militarism is immortalized in Tennyson's poem, "The Charge of the Light Brigade." To come to my point, it was Lord Lucan who misinterpreted his orders and directed The Light Brigade to charge up the wrong hill, where most of them got slaughtered. OOPS. He was a household name in his day, and a blight to the family honor unsurpassed until the late 20th century.
AT WHICH POINT..... The Seventh Lord made Lucan a household name all over again. This fellow was a classy gent in the 50's and 60's. He was at the center of London's jet set, with tuxedos and fast cars and mansions. Exclusive clubs and casinos where clever banter became idolized on society pages, all that shebop. Lord Lucan made a high-style living as a professional gambler. He screentested for the part of James Bond when Connery stepped aside.
The high rolling has high costs. By '74, an overweight Lucan was both deep in debt and at serious odds with his once-storybook wife. Both problems, it seemed to him, would be solved if she met a gruesome end. Lord Lucan lured the estranged woman back to their house in London, waited downstairs in the dark with a lead pipe, and struck out when the soft steps approached. By the time he was done, the blood was splattered all across the walls and ceiling and pooled deep and wide on the floor. Unfortunately, when he turned the lights on, he received a terrible shock. The poor nanny had switched her weekly night off. He'd killed the wrong woman, and there was another set of steps approaching and a familiar voice calling from the top of the stairs.
Well, Lucan went after his wife next with the pipe but she kneed him where it counts and escaped out into the night. Lucan waddled into his car and, despite one of the most massive manhunts in British history, disappeared. Fled to Monte Carlo? Sheltered by powerful friends? Remorseful suicide in desperation and shame? There was no trail but the abandonned car and a couple of enigmatic letters received by Lucan's friends, the blood staining the back of which authenticating the author's identity. The Chief Investigator who led the search wrote a book about it, giving his professional opinion that Lucan is still out there, alive and living under an assumed identity. It's an infamous mystery that might never be solved, really. Two things I know are certain: there are a load of tenants in Castlebar who are refusing to pay their land rents until the "lawful" landlord, Lucan, reemerges; and second, there's a pretty knaff pub that's opened up near the Superquinn shopping center named in honor of The Lord Lucan.
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