The accumulation of wealth dominated the life and mysterious death of Lord Clive of India, writes Chris Upton.

IN March 2006 a very old tortoise died in his compound at Calcutta Zoo; the creature was close to 250 years old. The demise of Adwaita broke a remarkable link (if it is true) with the man who once kept the tortoise as a pet. The owner had been Lord Clive of India.

There’s not much more to say about old Adwaita; he lived a quiet life, munching carrots, lettuce and garam flour. His erstwhile owner was considerably more energetic, the standard bearer of the British Empire, peer of the realm, and still a household name today, more than two centuries after his death. At a time when the UK links to India are being fostered and promoted more than ever, it is with Clive that those connections began.

It’s surprising that Robert Clive has not been the subject of countless films – I only know of one – for his life follows a classical trajectory of triumph and tragedy. At its end there was suicide, though for reasons and by means that still remain obscure.

Inevitably it is often with India that studies of Robert Clive begin and end. He established his reputation as a military commander and administrator in the East India Company, spending 20 years – almost half his life – on the sub-continent. His work done, Clive returned home almost half a million pounds the richer.

However, as with any Roman general, service abroad was only ever meant to be a stepping-stone to political power at home. It was back in England that Clive was able to turn his considerable wealth and status to political advantage, and most of that was done in Shropshire.

Clive of India’s Shropshire roots are often overlooked, despite the statue of the man in the market square at Shrewsbury. He was born at Styche House, near Market Drayton, and lies buried in St Margaret’s Church at Moreton Say, north-west of the town.

In 1761 Robert Clive was elected an MP for Shrewsbury, and elevated to the peerage in the following year. But by choosing an Irish tile (Baron Clive of Plassey), he was able to hold onto his seat in the Commons. Eighteenth century British politics was nothing if not flexible.

However, real power came, not from a seat in the Commons alone, but at the centre of a group of MPs, and preferably from one’s own family. For a man with money, all was possible. Central to this was the purchase of property and land, which gave a candidate a local base, by which to lean on the local electorate

In 1763, for example, one of the parliamentary seats for Bishop’s Castle became vacant. Clive moved swiftly to purchase nearby Walcot Hall from the deeply indebted Walcot family. Having removed the family which had traditionally nominated the MPs of the town, Clive was now free to ensure that his cousin, George Clive, won the seat instead. Five years later, Lord Clive succeeded in inserting his brother, William, into the second Bishop’s Castle seat. For the next half century, the town’s politics would remain firmly in the pocket of the Clives.

There was nothing new or unorthodox in what Lord Clive was doing, simply that the depth of his pocket allowed him to make his mark more rapidly. Two years before Clive first took up his seat at Shrewsbury, his father – Richard Clive – had himself been elected as an MP for Montgomery.

Richard Clive, in turn, owed his election to the considerable influence of Lord Powis, who was using Richard as a pawn in his game to secure a stronger power-base in Shropshire. What Lord Clive’s new-found Indian riches were doing was challenging the dominance of the old landowners, and bringing an ambitious new player to the table.

The electors themselves, numbering only a few dozens, were only too keen to see new money and new rivalries vying for their votes. It was uncontested elections they hated, for then there was no reason to bribe them.

By the end of the 1760s, then, Lord Clive had bought up enough land in Shropshire to win half-a-dozen seats in Bishop’s Castle, Shrewsbury and Ludlow, and was adding further estates in Devon, Monmouth and Surrey to his portfolio.

But around his neck there continued to hang the question of where his money had come from in the first place. A series of parliamentary enquiries scrutinized Clive’s conduct in India, though they largely exonerated him personally. If there was corruption in the way the sub-continent was governed, then the East India Company was to blame, not its willing servant.

No enquiry was needed to examine the way such money was deployed to win seats in the Commons. This was all perfectly above board.

Perhaps it was this taint of corruption that drove one of the most successful operators in 18th-century England to an early grave. Having established himself as among the most influential men in
Georgian England, Robert Clive simply walked away from it all.

On November 22, 1774 Lord Clive committed suicide at his house in Berkeley Square at the age of just 49 years. Speculation as to the reasons behind his death have continued to this day. The man who had half the world at his feet was simply removed to Shropshire, and buried in an unmarked grave at Moreton Say.