Episode 143: The Tichborne Case: Shipwreck, Imposture, and Scandal

In the annals of Victorian true crime, few stories captured the public’s imagination like the Tichborne Case. What began as a missing persons search spiraled into one of the longest and most bizarre legal sagas in British history—complete with family secrets, false identities, courtroom theatrics, and a public who couldn’t seem to look away.

Roger Tichborne, the shy heir to a wealthy English baronetcy, disappeared at sea in 1854. Years later, a man surfaced in Australia claiming to be Roger, having miraculously survived the wreck of the Bella and lived in obscurity ever since. That man, heavyset and rough around the edges, bore little resemblance to the delicate youth Roger had been. But he had supporters—powerful ones—and they launched him into a civil case to reclaim his inheritance.

When that case collapsed under the weight of inconsistencies and exposures, it didn’t end there. Instead, it morphed into a criminal trial—Regina v. Castro—where the Claimant stood accused of perjury, having falsely sworn that he was Roger Tichborne. This second trial was even more sensational than the first, stretching from April 1873 to February 1874. Courtrooms were packed, newspapers devoured every word, and the nation picked sides.

Presiding over the trial was Chief Justice Cockburn, a figure not known for subtlety. He had already made his feelings known in the civil case, and from the bench, his hostility to the Claimant and his defense was palpable. The prosecution team—largely the same as in the previous case—meticulously picked apart the Claimant’s story. They summoned over 200 witnesses from across the globe to assert that the man in the dock was not Roger Tichborne at all, but rather Arthur Orton, a butcher’s son from Wapping.

The defense, led by the flamboyant Edward Kenealy, painted a picture of conspiracy—a grand effort by the elite to suppress a man of humble origins from claiming his rightful identity. Kenealy’s courtroom antics were infamous, veering into personal attacks and wild accusations, and his behavior ultimately destroyed his legal career.

In the end, the jury found the Claimant guilty of perjury. They declared he was not Roger Tichborne but Arthur Orton, and he was sentenced to two consecutive seven-year terms. Yet outside the courtroom, the story took a different turn. The British public, enthralled by the drama, increasingly embraced the Claimant as a wronged man—a folk hero who had taken on the establishment and nearly won.

Released after serving ten years, the Claimant emerged from prison thinner and quieter, but still unrepentant. While his supporters had hoped he’d return to the cause, he opted instead for the music hall circuit and, later, a failed stint in the United States. He married again (despite not being legally divorced from his first wife), and lived in poverty. In 1895, he confessed in a newspaper interview that he was in fact Arthur Orton—only to recant the statement soon after. He died in 1898, destitute and largely forgotten, buried in a pauper’s grave. The Tichborne family, in an extraordinary gesture, allowed his coffin to carry the name “Sir Roger Charles Doughty Tichborne.”

In the decades since, the mystery has lingered. Most historians accept the verdict—he was Arthur Orton. But even so, whispers of doubt remain. Could someone have pulled off such a brazen imposture for so long? Could he have been Roger, returned from the dead only to be rejected by his own people?

Perhaps we’ll never truly know. The Tichborne Case is a story about identity, class, memory, and the power of belief. It was a courtroom drama, a national obsession, and ultimately, a parable—of how truth can be stranger than fiction, and sometimes, harder to prove.