The 'Baronet' From Wagga Wagga, Arthur Orton, or Tom Castro, Or Roger Tichborne
The Tichborne Claimant case has everything you’d want from a Victorian melodrama—mystery, deception, courtroom battles, and an unhealthy dose of wishful thinking. It’s proof, if ever it were needed, that reality often outshines fiction in sheer ridiculousness.
A Lost Heir and a Butcher with Big Dreams
Our story begins in 1829 with Roger Charles Tichborne, born in Paris but belonging to a wealthy English family. A delicate, slender young man with refined manners, Roger grew up speaking fluent French and, one presumes, sipping fine wine rather than gnawing on a butcher’s cut.
Then, in 1854, he set sail for New York on the ship Bella. Unfortunately, Bella turned out to be rather less than shipshape—within a week, she disappeared, taking Roger with her. By 1855, he was officially declared dead, though his mother, Lady Tichborne, steadfastly refused to believe it.
With the determination of a woman who would not let minor details (like a lack of evidence) stand in her way, she plastered newspapers worldwide with appeals for information about her son. And, lo and behold, in 1865, an Australian solicitor wrote to her with remarkable news: a man in Wagga Wagga, New South Wales, was claiming to be Roger.
Enter Tom Castro (and His Twenty-Four Stone Frame)
The man in question was a local butcher named Tom Castro—though “Roger” was now, let’s say, rather grander than when he had last been seen. In fact, where Roger had been slight, pale, and refined, Castro was a burly 24-stone (150kg) giant with a completely different face, a different build, and, as a particularly damning detail, absolutely no ability to speak French.
But did that deter Lady Tichborne? Absolutely not. With the enthusiasm of a mother who had already made up her mind (and perhaps a touch of wilful delusion), she declared without hesitation that Castro was indeed her long-lost son.
No matter that he recognised no family members, couldn’t recall any childhood stories, and had spent years merrily butchering meat rather than acting like an aristocrat—Lady Tichborne welcomed him with open arms. She moved him into her home, embraced his wife and children, and began handing him a generous allowance, much to the fury of the rest of the family, who pointed out, reasonably, that he was quite obviously an imposter.
The Courtroom Spectacle
The saga then escalated into two of the longest and most ludicrous trials in English history.
The first, Tichborne v. Lushington, lasted from 1871 to 1872 and was ostensibly about ejecting a tenant from Tichborne Park, though its real purpose was to establish the butcher’s claim to the family fortune. The case divided the nation into two camps:
The True Believers, who saw Castro/Orton as the rightful heir being robbed by scheming aristocrats.
The Sensible People, who looked at the photographic evidence and thought, “You’ve got to be joking.”
Remarkably, over a hundred witnesses from all walks of life swore that Castro was indeed Roger. This included a family doctor, Dr Lipscomb, who testified that the Claimant had a very distinctive genital deformity—though he tactfully avoided specifying what it was. It was, one imagines, the Victorian equivalent of a scandalous tabloid headline.
The claimant even gained support from high society figures, including Lord Rivers and the MP for Guildford, Guildford Onslow (a name so ridiculous it sounds like it was made up by Charles Dickens).
However, after months of testimony, the jury finally declared they had heard quite enough and dismissed the case. Castro was promptly arrested for perjury.
The Criminal Trial and the Rise of The People’s Candidate
The second act of this absurd drama, Regina v. Castro, ran from 1873 to 1874, making it one of the longest criminal trials in British history. This time, the jury barely needed an hour to reach a verdict: Castro was definitely not Roger Tichborne. He was, in fact, one Arthur Orton from Wapping—a man who, until recently, had been perfectly content chopping meat rather than managing a country estate.
For his troubles, Orton received 14 years of hard labour.
But the case had taken on a life of its own. His eccentric defence lawyer, Edward Kenealy, took the loss personally and decided to ride the wave of public sympathy straight into politics. He stood for Parliament in 1875 as The People’s Candidate and, astonishingly, won by a landslide.
Alas, his victory was short-lived. When he tried to convince Parliament to investigate the trial, he received exactly one vote—his own. He was soon disbarred, ridiculed, and ultimately consigned to history as an odd footnote in this bizarre affair.
Meanwhile, a thriving market sprang up around the Tichborne case: souvenir medallions, china figurines, and even teacloths were produced to commemorate the saga. If you ever wanted to dry your dishes with a picture of a fraudulent butcher, Victorian England had you covered.
The Final Years of ‘Sir Roger’ From Wagga Wagga
Orton was released from prison in 1884, having served ten years, and promptly embarked on a new career as a Music Hall Attraction. He confessed to a newspaper that he was indeed Arthur Orton—for a generous sum of £200—only to later retract the confession when the money ran out.
For the rest of his life, he flitted between different attempts to cash in on his notoriety. He even ran a tobacconist’s shop in Islington, though, predictably, that too failed.
When he finally died in 1898, one last twist remained: despite everything, his death certificate, coffin plate, and even the coroner all insisted on listing him as Sir Roger Tichborne.
And so, a man who was clearly not Roger Tichborne spent his life being embraced, prosecuted, defended, reviled, and then officially buried under the very name he had spent years fraudulently claiming.
If that isn’t the perfect ending to one of history’s greatest (and most ridiculous) impostor sagas, what is?
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