Much has been written over the years about the peculiarly disturbing strain of political assassinations in American history.

From Lincoln and Garfield to McKinley and Kennedy, it’s a sad and bloody path. There are also the near-misses. Since the first recorded assassination attempt on Andrew Jackson in 1835, there were a string of close calls, including Harry Truman in 1950, Gerland Ford twice in 1975, and Ronald Reagan in 1981. Two ex-presidents were shot while running to reclaim their old job (Theodore Roosevelt in 1912 and Donald Trump in 2024), and Franklin Roosevelt was inches away from a would-be assassin’s bullet as president-elect in 1933.

Of the 45 men who’ve served as president, 11—almost one in four—were targeted. It is, quite literally, a high-risk job.

Compare that to our cousins across the pond. Robert Walpole is generally considered Great Britain’s first prime minister, taking office in 1721. Of the 57 men and women who followed him over the next 305 years, one—and only one—was assassinated.

You won’t find his face on British coins or stamps. Despite an elaborately ornate memorial in Westminster Abbey and a handful of plaques here and there, he’s as much forgotten in his own country as he is unknown in ours.

This is the story of England’s only murdered prime minister.

With an earl for his father and a baroness for his mother, Spencer Perceval was born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth. His dad was an advisor to King George III and served for a while as Lord of the Admiralty. But the lush life didn’t last long.

The father died when Perceval was 8. As the second son of a second marriage, he wasn’t positioned to inherit much beyond his family’s aristocratic connections. Besides, with 15 brothers and sisters, there wasn’t much money to go around. Perceval would have to make his own way in the world.

He decided to become a lawyer, studying hard and working his way up from the bottom. His lowly prospects even put a crimp on his love life. He and his older brother Charles fell in love with two sisters. But big brother had inherited the title of lord, a seat in Parliament and the bulk of daddy’s estate. The girl’s father eagerly approved of the match. But as for the poor younger brother and his other daughter: no dice. So, they eloped. (And, to the father-in-law’s utter astonishment, apparently lived happily ever after.)

It took time, but Perceval’s law practice prospered. A career in politics followed. He paid his dues and rose through the Tory ranks, becoming Chancellor of the Exchequer (Britain’s version of treasury secretary) in 1807.

He finally got his nation’s top job in 1809 at age 46. He’d come a long way since the days when his lowly station prevented a father’s consent to marry.

A small, thin, pale man always dressed in black, his rivals sneeringly called him “Little P” behind his back. He was the last prime minister to wear the powdered wig with ponytail and knee britches that had been fashionable in the 18^th century. A lackluster public figure, Perceval was at least an able administrator.

He was such a non-entity, he might have been lost to history entirely if he hadn’t decided to attend a routine meeting in the House of Commons.

It was 5:15 p.m. on Monday, May 11, 1812. An unhinged man was waiting in the lobby.

John Bellingham felt he’d been wronged. A businessman working in Russia, he’d spent a year in prison there and believed (wrongly) that the Crown owed him compensation for his time behind bars. His request had been denied when Perceval handled the British Empire’s purse strings. He got his revenge that spring evening.

Bellingham approached the prime minister and shot him in the heart.

Perceval muttered “murdered” and then “Oh my God” before collapsing. Carried to a nearby room, he was placed on a table. When a doctor arrived seven minutes later, it was all over.

Bellingham sat calmly on a bench awaiting apprehension. He was tried, found guilty and hanged within one week. His body was given to medical students for dissection.

It was soon found that despite his high position, Perceval was flat broke. He left only 100 pounds for his widow and 12 children. Parliament swiftly awarded them all pensions.

Perceval was buried with great pomp and ceremony… and then promptly forgotten. Unlike the murders of Lincoln and Kennedy, which live on in America’s legacy to this day, Perceval’s untimely passing became barely a footnote in England’s long and fanciful history.        

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