Shownotes Transcript
Oh, Matt, you look like death warmed up. I feel awful. I had such a big night last night. I think I had about 15 pints and then...
I remember getting a kebab. I think I remember puking it up. I feel terrible. Oh, my God. They're the best nights though, right? Yeah. This is really fun. I kind of had a similar one, actually. I don't really remember it, but I did wake up next to a half-eaten falafel, so it must have been a bender. Alice, what's the matter with you? What? Disgusting behaviour. You literally just said the same thing. Yeah, but I'm a bloke. It's different. Like, what are you doing? It's not very ladylike. Ladylike? Yeah, and...
I mean, while we're on the subject, would it kill you to put a bit of makeup on sometimes? Or even just comb your hair? You're literally wearing a tracksuit. Yeah, but that suit's like the male frame, doesn't it? This is comfortable anyway. Like, you should dress up a bit more. Make the most of yourself. OK, I'm actually going to walk away now before I say something I regret. Oh, if you're getting up, will you stick the kettle on? I'm spitting feathers in here. 1963. The People Newspapers offices, London. Neil Phillips presses his phone to his ear.
tries to block out the noisy newsroom around him. Are you sure it's him? Not just someone from his department? Neil looks up to see his editor at his office window. Phillips! Office! He frantically scribbles down the last of what he's just been told, then reads it back. Usually, notes like this would make him think he'd been talking to a nutter, but he knows this source. And if this is right, he's sitting on dynamite.
"'Phillips, now!' Neil bundles up his notes and heads to his editor's office. "'I think I have something.' He eyes his editor's twitching jaw as he flips open his notepad and carefully slides over a photocopied sheet. Neil watches as his editor's eyes bulge. "'Christ, Phillips, I didn't take you for a pervert.' Neil fidgets, peers over the page, points towards a grainy reproduction of an image in the centre...
An elegant woman's dark bouffant hairstyle. She's kneeling in front of a man's groin. A triple-strand pearl necklace sitting high on her neck. And her delicate arm is reaching up to the man's naked penis. The picture cuts off at his torso. Neil hesitates. The fingers are slender. The jewellery's just like hers. He watches in anticipation as his editor's face breaks out into a grin.
Christ, man! It's the Duchess! His editor grabs the photocopy from the table, brings it to his face. Yeah, you have a good old close look at it, mate. Just, this is for journalism, you understand. I'm going to have to take this home and really, really study it. But if we can't tell who it actually is... Neil looks down at his notepad, checks the name he's written, his mind fizzing. I'm told word around Westminster is this headless geezer is Duncan Sand...
His editor leans in. The defence minister? I need more than a single sourced whisper. We should be clear, he's only headless in the photo. Yes, easier to identify if it was always. She's actually fellated a Georgian apparition. It's a very strange case, boss. Neil hears his phone ringing. He nods to his editor, then rushes back. It's his source again.
He throws himself down in his seat, bites the lid off his pen. Number 10's got wind of the rumours. PM's frantic. Can't risk another profumo. Neil stops writing. He realises this is not the story he thought it was. This isn't just a bit of lurid society gossip anymore. This dirty duchess is about to explode nationally and Margaret Campbell might be about to bring the country to its knees.
She's not the only one on our names, etc. Somebody's got to do it. Come on. I'm sort of the only one that can. Come on. When Luigi Mangione was arrested for allegedly shooting the CEO of UnitedHealthcare, he didn't just spark outrage. He ignited a cultural firestorm. Is the system working or is it time for a reckoning?
I'm Jesse Weber. Listen to Law and Crime's Luigi exclusively on Wondery Plus. Hi, I'm Mr. Ballin, the host of Mr. Ballin's Medical Mysteries. And each week on my podcast, you can expect to hear stories about bizarre illnesses no one can explain, miraculous recoveries that shouldn't have happened, and cases so baffling they stumped even the best doctors. Listen to Mr. Ballin's Medical Mysteries on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. ♪
I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. And this is British Scandal. Oh, Matt, it is not looking good for poor old Margaret Campbell. At the end of the last episode, her more or less estranged husband, Ian, declared he'd be divorcing her. She hasn't really been very lucky in love, has she? Do you feel sorry for her?
Yes, I do. That sympathy is tempered a little bit by her character because she is a bit of a rogue character. Obviously, Ian is a money-grabbing, cheating, gambling drunk. But let's not forget that she, at one point, had a master plan to fake a pregnancy and buy a Polish baby. You're still banging on about that? I'm prepared to move on, but I do think we need to be reminded of how insane a plan that was.
And when it was clear that wasn't going to work, she went one better and cast out on the paternity of Ian's kids so that the castle would eventually go to her and not them. Those innocent children were just collateral damage in her plan. So she's not the easiest person to want to throw a protective arm around. In that case, would you say that you are Team Ian? No, I wouldn't say I'm Team Ian regarding my previous remarks. He's a money-grabbing, cheating, gambling drunk.
But I do have a bit of sympathy for him at the moment where she tries to convince him his kids aren't his because that must have been very difficult. So in that specific context, a little bit of sympathy. I think it's important to remember when we're analysing all the things that have gone before that her actions are often reactions to what she's had to put up with at the hands of her husband.
She's really been pushed to the limits. And as a woman at this time, you know, she doesn't have the autonomy that he is afforded. It's just not a level playing field. All of that to say, the stage is now set for what we presume will be an epic battle. Who do you think will emerge victorious? I've got a little quote from the former Nottingham Forest manager and football pundit, Big Ron Atkinson.
I'm going to make a prediction here. It could go either way. One of the great thinkers of our time. Thank you for that. Very moving. Well, let's find out. This is episode three. Argyle versus Argyle. Three years previously, Edinburgh. Ian Campbell tosses a folder onto his solicitor's desk, a grin creeping across his face. He watches as his lawyer extracts two sheets of paper.
The forged letter Margaret wrote, posing as Louise, and the template of chopped-up words she'd made to trace it. He takes a deep drag from his cigarette. Everything is finally falling into place. Life has been peaceful since Maggie moved out of the castle, back to her flat in London. But now he'll be able to divorce her properly, take her for every penny he can, pay off his mounting debts, and squash that squalid little woman once and for all.
I'm sorry, but this isn't grounds for divorce. She tried to defraud my children! Painted my boys as illegitimate to steal their inheritance! It's all there, in black and white! Has she admitted to being the author? She's hardly bloody likely to, is she?
The lawyer clasps his hands, places them on his desk. Your Grace, the bar for divorce in this country is extremely high. What I need to see is something concrete, something that proves either cruelty, desertion, infidelity or insanity. It needs to be recent and it needs to be incontrovertible.
Sounds like the divorce laws have changed a bit since those days. Yeah, they were only a few years out. 1969 is when the laws for divorce were reformed. So at this point, you can't just be like, they're an absolute piece of work. Also, they're quite regressive divorce laws, but they're kind of going in her favour.
As a result? Yeah, never thought I'd say that I felt sorry for Ian Campbell, but he's holding a forged letter and all of the materials to make that forged letter and the solicitor's saying, what do you want me to do with it? Ian snatches up his file, stuffs it moodily into his briefcase and is about to leave when he's struck by a recollection. The night I found this, she was with another man. I'm certain something was going on between them. The lawyer shrugs.
Do you know the man? Ian shakes his head. Were there any witnesses? Ian grits his teeth. No. The lawyer returns his attention to his paperwork. Evidence, Your Grace. Supposition is not enough. Ian scowls. And then it hits him. Her diary. He looks up at the clock. It's 4.30pm. He could catch a train to London this evening. It would get in late, but that would be perfect.
Because tonight, under the cover of darkness, he's going to sneak into Maggie's flat and get the proof he needs to bring that wretched woman down. Okay, so his plan is to...
effectively break into her home, steal her diary in order to prove that she's the bad one. Exactly. Use her conquests and her affairs against her. But this is coming from a man who definitely hasn't been faithful, has been manipulative. He's gaslit her. He's essentially an abusive husband, but he knows there's a double standard. Yes. And it's not just that he realizes the norms of the time will protect him.
He doesn't think he's doing anything wrong, and yet he's genuinely outraged when she does the same.
norms of the time is such a good point because we think of the 1960s often as this progressive moment, as this move forward in sexual politics, particularly for women, the introduction of the pill obviously being a game changer. But the law of the time just didn't match up with that discourse or with those attitudes. So here with Maggie and Ian, you know, Maggie was very much Ian's property in his mind. So whatever action he took, he felt completely justified.
Two days later, Chancery Lane, London. Margaret storms into her solicitor's office. A telegram from Ian clutched in her fist. I want that bastard arrested! She slams it down on the desk. He broke into my flat in the dead of the night and stole my diary. Trespass and burglary. I want to see him dangle. All right, it's not one of your photos. She seethes with indignation as her lawyer motions for her to sit.
I appreciate the strength of feeling, Your Grace, but I'm afraid we must be realistic. Margaret perches, too agitated to sit still. Well, what can we do then? Standard procedure is to submit a counter-petition. Attempt to divorce him before he can divorce you. However... What? The Duke's case against you seems extensive. He shuffles through some documents.
As well as claims that you slandered his ex-wife and attempted to defraud his sons, he's presented a list of men with whom he believes you had extramarital relations. He hands her a sheet of paper. Eighty-eight in total. Margaret feels her jaw fall slack. You don't honestly think I've slept with all those men, do you? She gawps in disbelief as her lawyer's cheeks redden.
Forgive me, Your Grace, this is delicate, but your husband is also submitting a set of photographs. Her stomach plunges. Explicit images, he claims, depict you intimately pleasuring an anonymous man. Her vision starts to sway. In all the haze of the break-in, she'd completely forgotten about those Polaroids. Tucked in the back sleeve of her diary...
We're trying to have it all rendered inadmissible as evidence, but I should warn you, the Duke may attempt to use this material some other way. Her stammer kicks hard in her throat. Like what? A regretful look flashes in her lawyer's eyes. The press.
She grabs at the armrest, digs her fingers hard into the wood. Unfortunate phrase. If we were to proceed with a counter-petition, do you have any evidence on which to make a case? Margaret flounders. Her mind is in absolute freefall. I... I don't... I don't know. You have time to consider, but if this goes to trial and you are found guilty of adultery, damages at this scale could be substantial.
Up to half your holdings. So your best course may be to settle and accept fault. The words hit Margaret like a hammer. If anyone is at fault for their marriage collapsing, it's Ian. And she'll be damned if he gets so much as a shilling out of her. She may not know how to make a case for divorce, but if Ian's going to try and humiliate her, then she's damn well going to return fire. MUSIC
Two weeks later, the dining room in Verreri Castle. Ian dabs some yolk from the corner of his mouth, dumps his napkin on his plate and grabs up his newspaper. He turns to the society column and looks again at that magnificent headline. Diary of a Dirty Duchess. He's amazed at the gusto with which the press has gone crazy for the details he's leaked. He'd worried Maggie was a bit past it to be of interest, but clearly not.
He flicks on to the racing pages when his housekeeper enters. Solicitor on the phone, Your Grace, says it's rather urgent. Four hours later, Ian bursts through his solicitor's door. What the bloody hell is going on? His solicitor stands. Thank you for coming at such short notice, Your Grace. I'm afraid there's been a development regarding your evidence. Ian sits, pulls out a cigarette, chomps moodily on the filter. Your wife didn't...
I cannot wait to hear this. What? She's got a bloody cock in her mouth! Don't! You're better than that. Don't! Don't. Don't.
This episode is rife with opportunities for you to go to your lowest point, OK? Don't be the lowest common denominator. I'll try for second lowest. The Duchess maintains the penis in question is yours. Ian splutters, sending spit and smoke flying. What? Bullshit! She's lying!
He gapes in astonishment at his solicitor's stolid expression. The court will require proof of your assertion. Ian feels his face drain as he sees a stern-looking man enter and snap on a latex glove. If you could step behind this curtain, please, Your Grace. Ian fumes, furious they've taken such obvious bait.
But if he refuses, it's going to look suspicious. He stands, stubs out his cigarette, then marches behind the curtain to unbutton his fly. Ian takes in a sharp breath as he feels a gloved finger and thumb lift his penis. This has escalated so quickly. He's like, hang on, my wife's cheating on me and I've got to get my knob out. What? Is this really the best way we could be doing this? Are they lifting it so that they can maybe put it on a silk backdrop? Yeah, like an auction at Sotheby's. LAUGHTER
This next lot is the cock and balls of Serene Campbell. Ian stares up at the corner of the ceiling, studiously avoiding eye contact as the doctor inspects its underside. After what feels like an eternity of it being twisted and twiddled, his penis is finally released. He replaces it immediately. Well...
The urologist stands, removing his gloves. The Duke is correct. Both the penis and the pubic hair depicted in the photographs is significantly more substantial. The dimensions here simply do not compare. Ian jabs his shirt back in, angry that his lesser dimensions will now be a matter of legal record. Can I just remind the court that those dimensions are simply a snapshot in time?
and not the size it always is. On another matter, the Duchess is requesting a day's reprieve from the restraining order he recently acquired against her in order to collect her belongings from Imbereri. A bitter laugh escapes Ian. The audacity of Maggie, asking for a favour after this.
He turns, about to explain exactly where Maggie can shove a day's reprieve, but then stops. His mood brightens as he realises what Maggie will find if she goes to Inverary and tries to take her things away. The thought raises a fresh smile. Why, of course. Tell her I'd be delighted. Two weeks later, Inverary, late afternoon.
Margaret is wrapping up one final heirloom in her Inverary dressing room. A Clan Campbell brooch Ian gave her. Ian has granted her access from dawn until dusk. She's just spent the last ten hours working her way through the castle's forty rooms, carefully packing her belongings, when a voice appears at the door. Your Grace.
I've just been informed by the Duke that you're here to remove items from the castle. Regretfully, that won't be possible.
I have every right to be here. I have until dusk. She checks the rusty orange sky outside. It's not you, Your Grace. It's the items. There are liens on the assets of the estate. Margaret shuts her eyes, sighs. She is so tired of legal speak. What do you mean, liens? The castle's assets have been used as collateral to underwrite a loan of the Duke's.
But these are mine. I'm afraid until the debts are settled, they're technically the banks. She totters, a creeping sense of discomfort climbing her body. She's trying to understand, but he isn't talking sense. These are her belongings.
Where's Howard from the Halifax when you need him? Even the money-saving expert at this point could at least, you know, carve a path to being out of debt again. I would love to hear Martin Lewis explain. Now, Polaroids fall under a different part of the law, and if you switch to a Lloyd's variable rate, you can keep your saucy Polaroids, but only until the end of the tax year. She grabs her handbag, starts rooting around for her checkbook.
she's having to do this again. All the goddamn checks she's written for him. She's half blind with rage, but she refuses to be held to ransom. Right then, how much does he owe? The estate manager twiddles his fingers. How much? Uh, 2.5 million, Your Grace.
OK, I know what you're about to ask, so let me give you a bit more information. So this is a combination of his own personal gambling debts, sort of dukedom debts, costs for the castle, taxes, etc. And in modern money, that represents £73.5 million. I mean, we're talking Premier League levels of money at this stage. Imagine not knowing that you're in £73.5 million worth of debt.
Margaret feels her insides heave. I'm sorry, Your Grace. I'm afraid you'll need to vacate the grounds now. She looks up, sees the sun has set. Margaret turns, storms out of the castle, smouldering with fury. But as the cold evening air hits her face, she realises something. Ian has just given her the exact ammunition she needs to take him on.
Debts of £2.5 million. All through their marriage, he's been swindling her out of her fortune. If she can prove this divorce is just another desperate stunt for money, she can get his case thrown out, then divorce him herself and leave him to rot.
She's going to court. She's going to fight. And she's going to make sure the entire world gets to see Ian Campbell for the cheating, gambling con man he really is. We're at a critical moment right now with Trump throwing the global economy into chaos. And on the Al Franken podcast, we're diving into what's really happening, not just the headlines, but the actual impact on the lives of
I'm Al Franken, and in addition to being a five-time Emmy Award-winning SNL writer, four-time New York Times bestselling author, and former U.S. Senator, I host what I think is a pretty great podcast. Every week, I bring on fantastic guests who know the ins and outs of Washington, policy experts who can help break down complex issues and legal jargon, and yeah, also my comedy friends who help me out.
to help us have some desperately needed laughs. If you're trying to make sense of this living nightmare, follow the Al Franken Podcast on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to the Al Franken Podcast ad-free on Wondery+.
At the start of the 1970s, rookie entrepreneur Richard Branson was on a quest to make a million, and he was prepared to break the rules to get ahead of the competition. His company, Virgin Records, exploited a loophole in Britain's export regulations, but the plot came to a sudden halt when Richard was arrested and thrown in jail for tax evasion.
Hi, I'm Lindsey Graham, host of Wondery Show Business Movers. We tell the true stories of business leaders who risked it all, the critical moments that define their journey, and the ideas that transform the way we live our lives. In our latest series, a young British businessman's get-rich-quick schemes land him in trouble with the law. But while behind bars, he changes course to increase his revenue in legal ways.
and finds a winning formula, diversifying his brand. Soon, his new approach to business grows into a multi-billion dollar corporate empire, and it's all done under the Virgin name. Follow Business Movers wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen ad-free on the Amazon Music or Wondery app. February 1963, Edinburgh Court of Session. Margaret feels sick as her Bentley pulls up into the courtyard. A crowd, dozens strong, is stood waiting for her.
She slides down in her seat, cranes her head from the window. But it's useless. They've already seen her. Reporters rush the car. Photographers start setting off flashes. A noisy rabble inches from her face, clambers through the glass. The last two weeks have been hell. Papers filled with sleaze and wild speculation as Ian's attacks in the press have intensified.
This whole case is beginning to feel more like a trial by media than a divorce hearing. She looks to the empty seat next to her, wishes dearly that her father was still here, to take her hand, to tell her to stand strong. Collecting her handbag, she steals herself and steps from the car.
An explosion of commotion erupts around her, jeering and booing from the crowd. Who's the headless man in the photos, your grace? Are you aware they're calling you the dirty duchess, your grace?
Any more men to add to your list of 88, Your Grace? Margaret tips her head down, plasts her coat tight around her and presses forward into the courthouse. From the corner of her eye, she spies a shadow lurking in the corner and recoils in horror when she realises it's Ian. He breaks away from his lawyers, starts walking towards her.
She fixes her gaze forward, picks up her pace. But he's too quick. He steps in front of her. What do you want? She feels her skin crawl. It's not too late, you know, Maggie. You can still put a stop to all this before it gets any worse. He leans in close. I'd be prepared to consider a settlement. Spare us both this whole tawdry circus. His ashy breath makes her shudder. 250,000.
Write me a check and I disappear. So does the diary. She feels his eyes bore into her. Along with those photos. For a second, she falters. She would pay any amount if she could be sure this nightmare would end. But she knows it won't. It's not just that Ian would keep coming back, threatening her with ruin every time he needed more cash. It's the press.
If she folds now, then this is how she'll be remembered. Weak, shamed, shackled to this story forever. Ian is basically Putin. Any deal you do with him will not be the end of it. He'll keep coming back for more and more and more. You've got to stand up to him. What I'm saying is...
It's war. And you're saying Maggie is Zelensky? I'm saying that Maggie is Zelensky. I'm saying that we are the coalition of the willing and we stand behind her almost 60 years later, ready to serve. Coalition of the willy, really? Phenomenal. Margaret can't let that happen. She shoves past him, striding towards the courtroom. The sight of his shocked face giving her a newfound fire as she passes.
It's time to force Ian out of the shadows. See how he handles the full force of the public scrutiny. Marching on, Margaret spits out, "See you in court." Later that afternoon, the Edinburgh Court of Sessions. Ian raises his left hand, places his right on the Bible, and takes in the scene in front of him. The courtroom is small but packed to the rafters.
The jury's bench stuffed full of the British and foreign press. The gallery filled with members of the public. He turns to Maggie, dressed conservatively in a thick tweed jacket and the longest skirt she owns. The desperation of it makes him grin. He sits as her barrister approaches. Your Grace, this is not your first divorce, correct? Ian leans back calmly, nods. Correct. A costly business, divorce.
You're a gambling man, are you not? Ian feels his brow knit, unsure where this is going. I enjoy an occasional sporting flutter, yes. An expensive habit for those of us not blessed with luck. How precisely do you fund this hobby? Ian bristles. I received a monthly allowance from my wife. A kept man. Well, that is lucky. LAUGHTER
He hears laughter ripple through the gallery. You also found another method by which to supplement that allowance. By covertly using your wife's assets as collateral for loans. Ian swallows, feels his starched collar scratch against his neck. Those assets are shared, part of the Inverary estate. As the Duke, I am entitled to... He can hear how rattled he sounds.
He stops, takes a breath. Look, I've provided indisputable evidence that my wife committed adultery. I fail to see what bearing my finances has on that. The defense turns back to his table. Ah, yes, the photographs. Here I ask, what leads you to believe they depict your wife? Ian snorts. Apart from the bathroom filled with mirrors.
Bathrooms frequently contain mirrors, Your Grace. He jostles again. How about her necklace? Your wife is hardly alone in wearing pearls. The fact is we cannot see this woman's face. Her body shows no distinguishing marks. Could it not be that these aren't pictures of your wife at all, but are in fact commercially acquired pornography?
A rush of anger courses through Ian. No, certainly not! The court falls silent. All he can hear is his pulse. Your tone implies distaste, Your Grace. But for the record, you do possess a sizeable collection of pornography, do you not? Do bear in mind, you are under oath. His cheeks burn as the sound of reporters' pens scribbling fills his ears.
He passes the next three hours of cross-examination in a daze, every question chipping away at him unexpectedly, making him out to be the pervert, a liar, a cheat. As he steps down from the stand, Ian begins to wonder for the first time about his chances of success. He can't afford to lose this case. His legal bills have pushed him to the absolute brink. Cancel the porn subscription, mate. LAUGHTER
If the judge doesn't rule in his favour, it's all over. What he needs is some insurance, something guaranteed to undermine Margaret's credibility and finish the job for good. And he has one final ace to play. The following Sunday, Pompadour restaurant, Edinburgh. Margaret thunders along the pavement of Princes Street, trailed by reporters snapping at her heels.
All week, the attention has been relentless. She was supposed to be having a quiet dinner with her legal team ahead of taking the stand tomorrow, but that won't be happening now. As she enters the lavish dining hall of the Pompadour, Margaret feels the restaurant's ambience collapse. Walking between the tables, she finds herself snagging on the eyes of every diner she passes. Conversations turning to murmurs.
It feels as though the entire nation is gripped by speculation of who the man in the Polaroid is. Hollywood actor Douglas Fairbanks Jr. Duncan Sands, the defence minister. I heard it was Prince Philip. The brother of a Nazi scientist. She's sick of it. She keeps pushing forward. He's trying to get me committed.
That bastard is trying to put me in an asylum! Her lawyers half stand in their seats, ushering her to sit and shush. But Margaret won't be tamed. He tried to blackmail my doctor! Her barrister's face clouds over. Your Grace, I implore you to be careful making such accusations in public.
But it's true. I just spoke with my doctor. Ian turned up at his surgery, started demanding he refer me for psychiatric evaluation, threatened to add him to the list if he didn't agree. Her solicitor puts down his fork, glances slyly at the neighbouring tables. He breaks into my flat, steals my belongings, defrauds me of God knows how much, tries to get me sent to an asylum, all with no consequence.
Am I just supposed to sit here and enjoy this endless persecution? Your Grace, please. We must stay the course. Things have been going well in court. The Duke appears shifty, unsympathetic. Even some of the papers are turning. Margaret clutches her chest. Please, don't let him goad you into the realm of unsupported speculation. Me?
He's taken the name of every man in my diary, accused me of sleeping with them. That's far more baseless than anything I'm saying. And everyone believes him because I'm a woman. The lawyers swap uncomfortable looks.
I mean, that's it, isn't it? In a nutshell. Because I dare to be honest about enjoying sex. She's hit the nail on the head, hasn't she? It's not just that she had affairs or that she had extramarital liaisons. It's that she has spoken about sex in a shameless, proud way.
enjoyment-focused way. I mean, female pleasure, I would say, is the focus of the discourse only in the last 15 years or something. You know, that feels like such a contemporary idea. So this would have been so transgressive. Her barrister places a hand on the table, smooths out the tablecloth. Your Grace, however much you wish to settle your scores, on the stand you need to be led by two things, that which you know to be true.
and that which you can prove. No more, he signals to a waiter for a glass of water. You have an honest case to make. Make it. Margaret feels battered, bruised, the weight of endless indignity pressing down on her. She cannot believe she's being asked to bite her tongue, while Ian has been so free to run his mouth. There's so much she would kill to say on the stand.
However sound her lawyer's advice is, she's up there alone tomorrow. And the only person who gets to decide how much of the truth she's prepared to tell is her. The next morning, Edinburgh, Court of Session. Margaret raises her right hand, swears her oath, then settles in to face Ian's barrister. Your Grace, I'd like to ask about your diary.
Next week's pretty busy, but end of the month I'm a bit more free if you want to meet up. My private diary that my husband broke into my flat to steal from me. His barrister spins, cocks an exaggerated eyebrow. Forgive me, Your Grace, I'm confused. Until now, you've always maintained that diary was a simple record of social appointments. Now you're asking the court to believe that it does, in fact, contain private information.
Margaret's stomach gurgles. ''It's mine, therefore it's private,'' he nods. ''I see. It would certainly explain why you kept this diary tucked out of sight alongside a set of extremely explicit photographs. You know the items to which I refer?'' She purses her lips. ''Of course. The entire country knows about them now.''
She hears titters in the gallery. And are you the woman depicted in them? The laughing stops. Journalists in the jury seats sit up, poised. The public gallery leans in, breath baited. Margaret had expected the question, but she still doesn't know how to respond. She takes a breath, looks down at her feet. Then her answer comes to her. May I see them? She watches the barrister narrow his eyes. Think briefly.
Then motion for the clerk to hand her the photos. Margaret takes them, rifles through them, careful not to let her face betray any emotion. That night had been one of the few bright spots in her life as a duchess, a thrilling moment of connection and beauty in a time that's been notably lacking in both. She turns to the next photo, squints hard at the image of the back of her head. It's impossible to prove it's her.
If she was willing to perjure herself, she could easily deny being this woman. But the more she looks at the image, the more she realises she doesn't want to deny it. She is this woman and she isn't ashamed of that. Ian has taken a lot from her over the course of their marriage. Her self-esteem, her sense of freedom, hundreds of thousands of pounds. Margaret places the Polaroids down on the edge of the dock, returns her hands to her lap.
Stares pointedly at the group of journalists, then at the barrister. Well, your grace? She lets the moment sit, waits until she has the attention of every person in the court. Then, in a crystal clear voice, no trace of a stutter, she answers. Yes, that's me. That is so brave.
I just can't get over it. It's unbelievably courageous. I mean, we've just discussed what it means in that time. But for her, somebody who really values her social standing, she knows what this is going to mean for the future. And for her to stand up and say...
I won't feel shame about this. I've done nothing wrong. And you can judge me for it. You can shun me for it. But I am going to make a stand. You presume not just for her, but for other women. Those Polaroids are basically revenge porn. They were private. And just because someone else puts them in the public domain, it doesn't mean you should feel embarrassed about them. Yeah, I think we're still grappling with this idea that people are entitled to a private life, particularly a private sex life.
And I think even now in 2025, it is women who bear the brunt of that shame versus men who generally get social cachet. The press box ignites into chaos. There's uproar from the gallery. The judge clamors to gain some order. Watching it all, Margaret knows the pandemonium she's just unleashed is merely a fraction of what will occur when this makes the papers. She might have just sealed her fate.
But she's also made her stand. And for the first time in a long time, she feels proud.
In the early hours of December 4th, 2024, CEO Brian Thompson stepped out onto the streets of Midtown Manhattan. This assailant pulls out a weapon and starts firing at him. We're talking about the CEO of the biggest private health insurance corporation in the world. And the suspect. He has been identified as Luigi Nicholas Mangione. Became one of the most divisive figures in modern criminal history. I was targeted.
premeditated and meant to sow terror. I'm Jesse Weber, host of Luigi, produced by Law & Crime and Twist. This is more than a true crime investigation. We explore a uniquely American moment that could change the country forever. He's awoken the people to a true issue.
Finally, maybe this would lead rich and powerful people to acknowledge the barbaric nature of our healthcare system. Listen to Law and Crime's Luigi exclusively on Wondery Plus. You can join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Spotify, or Apple Podcasts. At 24, I lost my narrative, or rather it was stolen from me. And the Monica Lewinsky that my friends and family knew was usurped by false narratives, callous jokes, and politics. I
I would define reclaiming as to take back what was yours. Something you possess is lost or stolen, and ultimately you triumph in finding it again. So I think listeners can expect me to be chatting with folks, both recognizable and unrecognizable names, about the way that people have navigated roads to triumph.
My hope is that people will finish an episode of Reclaiming and feel like they filled their tank up. They connected with the people that I'm talking to and leave with maybe some nuggets that help them feel a little more hopeful. Follow Reclaiming with Monica Lewinsky on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Reclaiming early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts.
Two months later, May 1963, Edinburgh Court of Session. Ian walks back into the courtroom, trepidation in each step. The second Maggie admitted her adultery in the dock, he figured he was on velvet. He couldn't see how he could possibly lose. But it's since taken the judge two months to deliberate on this case. And with each day that's passed, his sense of unease has been building.
Taking his seat at the front of the packed room, Ian turns to see how Maggie is bearing up, hoping to see her gaunt, frail, plagued with worry. But he doesn't see her at all. There's no sign of her anywhere. Not in her seat, not in the public gallery, not in the hall outside. All rise! Confused, Ian stands, looks at his watch. Why isn't she here?
He rubs his thumb over his knuckles, unable to take his eyes off the judge as he lays out his papers, takes a sip of water, then peers up over the edge of his bench.
What we've heard here in this court is the story of a warring couple, a marriage that descended into a bitter game of cat and mouse, blighted by drinking, debt and dishonesty. But among the many recriminations aired here, one thing is clear. He has a small willy. Ian's foot taps rapidly on the floor, his heart in his mouth.
Margaret Campbell, Duchess of Argyle, is a malicious individual. A yelp almost escapes him. There is enough in her own admissions and proven facts to establish that she was a completely promiscuous woman whose sexual appetite could only be satisfied with a number of men. The room erupts into gasps. It's all Ian can do to keep from bursting with laughter.
She is a highly sexed woman who has ceased to be satisfied by normal relations and had started to indulge in disgusting sexual activities to gratify a debased sexual appetite.
I don't think that's within the remit of this case for him to say that. Yeah, it's absolutely chilling. He's there to make a legal judgment, not a moral one. He could have said, yeah, she was adulterous, but instead he's like, no, I think it's important that I humiliate this woman. Ian steps out of the courtroom, absolutely exhilarated. Congratulations, your grace. Ian pumps his lawyer's hand. Bloody marvellous work. You'll come for a drink to celebrate, I hope. Duchess's treat.
Gather the troops. I'll just need to make a call. Hello? Matilda, good news. I'm free. Oh my love, is it really over? Why don't you go to the venue this afternoon and put down the deposit?
Order the cakes. Buy the champagne. I can reimburse you the second Maggie coughs up for damages. But I just can't wait a moment longer to be married to you. Ian looks over his shoulder, gives a thumbs up to his lawyers as he sees them leaving for the pub. Yes, darling. I love you too. I'd better go. The next morning, L'Hôtel Saint-Mariette, Paris.
Margaret drums her fingers on the reception desk, silently willing the concierge to hurry up. Her friend Diana called last night to say the press has got wind of her hiding out in Paris. It's only a matter of time before they find her here. She scans the street outside, pushes her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose and turns back to the desk. Et voilà, madame, your parcel. He hands her a brown paper package over the desk, tied in string.
But she can't open it here, not where anyone can see. She tucks it under her arm and heads for the lift. Up in her suite, Margaret sits at her writing table, toying with the string. She knows what's inside. She just can't bring herself to look. There was a time when she loved reading her name in the newspaper. Even when the gossip columnists were being catty about her, she still got a certain thrill from it. Now the idea fills her with dread.
Mustering her last scrap of courage, she tugs the parcel open, pulls back the wrapping and looks at the headlines. A wave of fatigue hits her as she runs her eyes across the big, bold type. Divorce for the dirty duchess. Disgraced. A completely promiscuous woman. Malicious Margaret. The inside story. This is where she's effectively stood a second trial.
in the court of public opinion. And you can't help but feel like that would have happened no matter what the result was in the legal court case. She scans the copy for any mention of Ian. His name is tucked away in tiny paragraphs here and there, but only in passing. His reputation appears utterly unscathed. She slides the whole lot straight off the desk and into the bin. From the bedroom, she hears her boyfriend, Bill, stirring. She stands, makes her way through to him...
Dare I ask? I think it's only fair to tell you that you're stepping out with a disgraced woman. A disgusting harlot with a debased sexual appetite. Bill smiles, opens his arms and ushers her over.
And I couldn't be happier about it. She makes her way to him forlornly, lays down on him, curling herself onto his chest, and as Bill gently strokes her hair, she begins to sob. She stays there for a few minutes, then wipes a final tear from her cheek and places a hand on Bill's chest. She pushes herself up to look him in the eye. Will you promise me something? He raises an eyebrow. What? What?
never, ever ask me to marry you. Bill smiles. Margaret can't help but smile in return. I promise. She returns her head to his chest, right where his heart is beating. Good. You're much too good for marriage. And so am I. Argyle versus Argyle was the costliest divorce of its time.
Margaret ended up having to pay Ian the equivalent of about £1.4 million in today's money. Six weeks after his divorce was granted, Ian Campbell remarried, his fourth and final wife, Matilda Costa Mortimer. Unknown to Matilda at the time of their marriage, Ian had previously had an affair with her mother. He died ten years later in 1973, leaving Inverary and the Duchy of Argyll to his son, Ian.
Margaret never remarried. Having burned through her inheritance, her debts forced her to move from her Mayfair flat into the Grosvenor Hotel. The hotel evicted her in 1990 over non-payment of bills. She died in penury in 1993. She never revealed the identity of the headless man.
Follow British Scandal on the Wondery app, Amazon Music or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge entire seasons early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondery.com slash survey.
Hey, I'm Cassie DePeckel, the host of Wondery's podcast, Against the Odds. In each episode, we share thrilling true stories of survival, putting you in the shoes of the people who live to tell the tale. In our next season, it's February 14th, 1979. Elmo Wartman and his three children are stranded on a remote Alaskan island after a massive storm destroys their sailboat.
Miles from help, they have to face the brutal cold with barely any food, only a sale for shelter, and a leaky plastic dinghy. Desperate to survive, they build a raft and try to reach safety. But as starvation and frostbite take hold, and days stretch into weeks, their endurance is pushed to the limit. Follow Against the Odds wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen ad-free on the Amazon Music or Wondery app.
From Wondery and Samizdat Audio, this is the third episode in our series, The Dirty Duchess. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read The Grit in the Pearl by Lindsay Spence, The Duchess Who Dared by Charles Castle, and you can watch A Very British Scandal from the BBC and Amazon. If you've got a scandal you'd like us to cover, get in touch at...
British Scandal at Wondery.com British Scandal is hosted by me, Alice Levine. And me, Matt Ford. Written by Chris Lockery. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our story editor is James Maniac. Sound design by Dan King. Our engineer is Jaya Williams. For Sammerstadt, our producer is Redsy Bernard. Our assistant producer is Louise Mason.
Our senior producers are Jo Sykes and Dasha Lisitzina. For Wondery, our senior producer is Theodora Leloudis. And our senior managing producer is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne and Marshall Louis. Wondery.
Everyone has that friend who seems kind of perfect. For Patty, that friend was Desiree. Until one day... I texted her and she was not getting the text. So I went to Instagram. She has no Instagram anymore. And Facebook, no Facebook anymore. Desiree was gone. And there was one person who knew the answer. I am a spiritual person, a magical person.
A gorgeous Brazilian influencer called Cat Torres. But who was hiding a secret?
From Wondery, based on my smash hit podcast from Brazil, comes a new series, Don't Cross Cat, about a search that led me to a mystery in a Texas suburb. I'm calling to check on the two missing Brazilian girls. Maybe get some undercover crew there. The family are freaking out. They are lost. I'm Chico Felitti. You can listen to Don't Cross Cat on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.
Every successful business starts with an idea. And on The Best Idea Yet, we're obsessed with those light bulb moments. Like how a bored barista invented the Frappuccino during his downtime, and then it got acquired by Starbucks. Or how Patagonia's iconic fleece was inspired by a toilet seat cover. On The Best Idea Yet, we dive into the untold origin stories behind the products you're obsessed with.
and the bold risk takers made them go viral. These are the wild ideas and insights that made Birkenstock the best selling sandal since Jesus and made Super Mario the most played video game in the history of attention span. Nintendo almost became a ramen company until Super Mario saved it. New episodes drop every Tuesday. Follow the best idea yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.
You can listen early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. And if this podcast lasts longer than 45 minutes, call your doctor.