The Rainy‑Night Moor Shooting and an Ambitious Aristocrat’s Rise
At eight o’clock on the evening of 24 October 1975, heavy rain lashed the remote moorland of Exmoor in south‑west England. A beat‑up blue car jolted along rutted tracks and came to a halt on top of a boggy marsh.
A soft‑featured young man climbed out of the passenger seat. Close behind him, his large Great Dane, Rinka, leaped from the back of the vehicle. The youth knelt down and tried to calm his frightened pet.
The driver’s door swung open. A stocky man stepped out, drew a breath, and shouted sharply into the downpour: “Norman Scott! I am the man hired to kill you.”
The young man froze and looked up. A gunshot rang out. Rinka yelped and crumpled into the mud, its blood splattering all over its owner.
He dropped to his knees and cradled the dying animal. “What are you doing — I‑”
Before he could finish, the muzzle of a gun pressed hard against his forehead. The man spoke coldly: “Don’t worry. You are next.”
Overwhelmed by terror, the youth spun around and ran for his life out across the dark moor. Behind him, the gunman pulled the trigger once more.
This bizarre attack on Exmoor failed to murder its intended target. It only killed a dog. Yet it would blow open one of the most sensational political scandals of twentieth‑century Britain: the Thorpe Affair. At the heart of the chaos lay a lost national insurance card, a hidden gay affair, blackmail fears, and a conspiracy to commit murder.
The central figure was John Jeremy Thorpe, born in London in 1929 into an old, immensely powerful political family. The Thorpe lineage stretched back centuries, with ancestors who served the crown, held peerages and occupied senior government office.
Thorpe’s maternal grandfather had fought against Erich Ludendorff on the western front in the First World War. As a boy, Thorpe spent time playing in the gardens of former prime minister David Lloyd George. Most people were born onto the starting‑line of life; Thorpe was born sitting in the referee’s booth.
While studying at Eton College, Thorpe earned the unflattering nickname “Smooth Thorpe” for his habit of currying favour with masters. Two of his teenage statements caused real stirs: he publicly claimed he intended to marry Princess Margaret, and he turned his back on the Conservative Party — where his family held deep roots — to join the fading Liberal Party.
By the 1950s, the Liberals, once Britain’s dominant political force in the 1800s, had collapsed to just six seats in the House of Commons. Most observers thought Thorpe’s choice was madness. Thorpe saw it differently. The Conservatives and Labour were crowded with senior figures; under normal advancement rules, he would wait decades for real power. In the small Liberal Party, however, a charismatic young man could climb very fast.
His calculation proved correct. Thorpe positioned himself as Lloyd George’s political heir. With polished television speeches and policies that appealed to younger voters, he built a large public following. In 1959, aged only thirty, he was elected Member of Parliament for North Devon.
North Devon was a sparsely populated rural seat of fewer than 100 000 people. Major politicians usually avoided it; it was treated as a safe‑seat consolation prize for party also‑rans. Thorpe saw it differently: for him, North Devon was the first stepping‑stone toward 10 Downing Street.
By 1960, nearly every political commentator agreed: Jeremy Thorpe was the obvious future leader of the Liberal Party. Given favourable circumstances, he might even become Prime Minister.
Then bad news arrived. In February 1960, Princess Margaret got married. What stung Thorpe was less the loss of his fantasy bride than the fact her husband, Antony Armstrong‑Jones, was strikingly handsome. Thorpe was bisexual, with a strong preference for men. In 1960s Britain, for a politician to be outed as homosexual amounted to political suicide. He guarded that secret at all costs.
Shortly after the royal wedding, Thorpe sent a reckless postcard to a man called Norman Vater, who sometimes styled himself The Hon. Norman Van de Brecht de Vater. “The Princess’s engagement is bloody annoying. I had planned to marry one and seduce the other.”
To outsiders, Vater lived the high life of a wealthy gentleman: villa, fast cars, prize racehorses and hunting hounds. In reality, he was the son of a miner, completely bankrupt. His lavish lifestyle survived on fraud and deception.
Vater realised immediately the explosive value of Thorpe’s postcard. He showed it to his young stable‑hand. “Look at this,” he boasted. “This comes from a very important man. This secret will keep me comfortable for the rest of my life.”
Vater did not consider the stable‑hand any real threat. The young man worked for board and lodging only; he asked for no wages, merely that Vater keep his national‑insurance card valid.
In 1960s Britain, the national‑insurance card functioned almost as an identity document plus social‑security record. Without one, you could barely find work or claim state benefits.
Vater was convinced this penniless young stable‑hand could never hurt him. His name was Norman Josiffe, later known to the world as Norman Scott. No one could have guessed then: that postcard, and that overlooked stable‑hand, would one day drag a rising political star toward total ruin.
📚 The Thorpe Affair: Britain’s Most Scandalous Political Soap‑Opera
- 1. The Rainy‑Night Moor Shooting and an Ambitious Aristocrat’s Rise (Current)
- 2. The National‑Insurance Card Trap — the Aristocrat and the Vulnerable Stable‑Hand
- 3. The Impossible Dead‑End — Endless Harassment and the Birth of a Murder Plot
- 4. Hired Killers, the Dog Murder, Public Outcry and the Final Verdict
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