by Roy Lewis
‘That leaves Lewis Goodman.’
Ben Gully stared at me portentously. ‘I’ll be straight with you, Mr James. The track gossip is there were indeed ringers in the Derby. Possibly two. Both put up by Lewis Goodman. And several men of consequence have had their fingers burned.’ His glance slipped away. ‘I hear Lord Havermere’s son has been caught, among others.’
Lester Grenwood. I nodded. ‘Grenwood mentioned it to me.’ At the Cider Cellars I’d learned from gossip that both he and that popinjay Hussar Hilliard had been in a syndicate. We sat silently for a while, mulling things over.
The truth is, I should have left well alone at that point. It was Ben Gully’s certain view: I could tell from the way he looked at me. But I disliked the mud the newspapers were throwing; I didn’t like scornful fingers pointed at me, or sniggers in the clubs. I’d been frustrated unjustly by Baron Alderson because of the judge’s dislike of the Turf and friendships in the Reform Club; I still writhed mentally under the lash of the newspaper comment and the attitude of the Inner Temple Benchers; and I was angry at the way in which Alexander Cockburn had manoeuvred himself out of the limelight at the appropriate moment.
‘You’re taking this too personally, Mr James,’ Gully murmured after a while. ‘That’s bad, sir.’
‘I’d damned well like to discover the truth of it all.’
Ben Gully emptied his mug. He shook his head doubtfully. ‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘Make further enquiries.’
Gully wrinkled his battered nose doubtfully. ‘Could be a waste of time and money. Everything’s gone quiet. No Joe Bartle. No Running Rein. No information on the street, other than the usual ill-informed gossip.’
I frowned. ‘What about this man Bartle? Why did he just disappear?’
Ben Gully shrugged. ‘Paid, I reckon. Maybe gone off to darkest Yorkshire. Or lying low in London. He was to give evidence supporting Goodman’s story so I wouldn’t put it past Bentinck to suborn him. Lord George can afford it to save his own reputation.’
‘And the horse?’
Ben Gully drew a deep, reflective sigh. ‘Now that’s another matter. It could well be that Lord George is behind that. On the other hand it could be Goodman – he didn’t want to take the chance of having the horse he’d sold to Wood shown up as a ringer in court. He’d have been taken aback by the judge’s attitude…. But going back to Bartle.’ Gully tapped a fingernail against his teeth. ‘I did hear there was a bit of a problem at the stables, on the Wednesday he left, but the stableman Cornelius Smith is keeping close. My guess is he’s been warned off saying too much – by Bentinck or Goodman, who’s to say?’ Gully eyed me covertly. ‘You didn’t happen to turn up at the Porky Clark–Sam Martin battle, that Sunday afternoon?’
‘I was there.’
Gully frowned. ‘I missed it. Business down at the docks. But one of my … advisers, he told me he thought he saw Joe Bartle in the crowd. So the stableman was still around at the weekend, on the day before your case collapsed.’
‘Goodman was also there, on the Heath.’
‘Well, he would be, with the rest of the swell mob. As for Joe Bartle, seems that he got himself into some kind of scuffle. Before he vanished again.’
‘There was a lot of battles going on at the Heath that afternoon,’ I recalled.
‘That’s nothing new,’ Gully agreed.
I took a deep breath. ‘This man Bartle. I think that’s where the key lies. We need to talk to Joe Bartle. He was at the stable; he would have supported Goodman’s evidence. But he didn’t turn up, and now he’s gone to ground. Get out into the streets, Ben. See what you can find. I’m sure if we can get to talk to Bartle, we’ll find out what really happened to turn our case into a fiasco.’
‘I’ll do it, Mr James, but,’ Gully added warningly, ‘I have to tell you it’s going to cost.’
‘Don’t worry about the money,’ I replied confidently. I had an appointment with Mr Bulstrode the following afternoon.
3
‘I’ve seen your clerk, Mr Villiers,’ Bulstrode announced wheezily, settling back in the easy chair and accepting gracefully the glass of sherry proffered him. He stroked his flamboyant cravat in self satisfaction. ‘Your clerk will no doubt have informed you that your fee has been paid in full, Mr James … we always pride ourselves at Bulstrode and Bulstrode that we settle our debts promptly.’ He licked a pudgy finger, smoothed his left eyebrow smugly. ‘It’s helpful, of course, to have an honourable man like Mr Wood who is also prepared to settle up quickly. As for the case itself, the outcome was a great pity, a great pity for Mr Wood. He is quite cast down.’
‘He’s been made a fool of,’ I replied curtly. ‘As we all have.’
Bulstrode eyed me, a certain anxiety creeping into his eyes. His tone took on a nervous edge. ‘I admit things did not go well for us….’
‘The dice were heavily loaded against us,’ I asserted with vigour. ‘It’s clear to me that Baron Alderson was nobbled by members of the Jockey Club. The stableman Joe Bartle was probably paid to stay away from the courtroom. And the damned horse was stolen away from under our noses.’
‘It’s all been most unfortunate,’ Bulstrode muttered unhappily. ‘And it’s too late to be remedied now, of course, but the whole affair leaves me very angry of disposition.’
I knew I’d have to play my West Country solicitor carefully. I affected a cynical air. ‘Do you enjoy being made a fool of, Bulstrode?’
The West Country solicitor wriggled uncomfortably and sipped his sherry. ‘Made a fool of … I’m not sure I’d go that far, Mr James.’
I injected anger into my tones. ‘I would. It’s been nothing less than a conspiracy from the beginning. We’ve been caught in the middle of a great confidence trick, Bulstrode, perpetrated by one or the other, or even both sides! We have that tricky villain Goodman on the one hand, and we have on the other Lord George Bentinck and his aristocratic friends. Colonel Peel, it seems to me, is as much a gull as Ernest Wood in this matter. Both have been pulled by powerful forces. Evil forces. The underworld on the one hand, and the reprehensible use of power and privilege on the other. Don’t you agree, Bulstrode?’
‘Well, I’m not sure….’ Bulstrode hesitated. I poured him another glass of sherry to stiffen his sinews. ‘I suppose there is something in what you say,’ he admitted unhappily, staring at his highly polished boots.
‘Absolutely right! And I think it’s up to us, as men of probity and honour and determination, to do something about it!’
It rang the right bell. Bulstrode preened a little at my choice of words. He sipped his sherry. ‘Probity and honour and determination. Well, of course, we did our best in the courtroom….’
‘But that was not enough! The undoubted fact is we were overcome by powers of darkness. But you and I, we are men of law, are we not? It’s up to people like us to surmount such difficulties, fight on in the pursuit of truth and justice!’
Bulstrode’s eyes gleamed. He enjoyed the ring of my words. He was clearly flattered by my suggesting we were seekers of truth and justice. ‘I’ll drink to that, Mr James,’ he replied boldly, raising his half-empty glass.
I eyed him carefully. ‘So you agree we should not let this sleeping dog lie, then?’
Bulstrode finished his sherry in a gulp and set down the glass. ‘Indeed … absolutely not!’ He frowned. ‘But how….?’
‘I don’t think we should let these evil-doers get away with it,’ I growled truculently. ‘We should look into the possibility of another trial.’
Bulstrode sighed and shook his heavy head. ‘I don’t think Mr Wood is quite up to that. He’s quite devastated, poor man. He’s taken to his country house in Gloucestershire, and is avoiding society at the moment. Another trial….’
‘We’d have to get the evidence first, of course,’ I intervened quickly. ‘To demonstrate where the guilt lies. We can only expose the conspiracy when we have the evidence.’
‘But without instruction
s from Mr Wood, or some other interested party—’
‘But aren’t we interested parties?’ I insisted. ‘You and I, Bulstrode? Men of law?’ I thundered. ‘Men who have been made fools of? Men of pluck and probity, determination and destiny? Haven’t we a part to play, as seekers of truth and justice?’
It was the kind of rhetoric that became my trademark at the Old Bailey in later years. Bulstrode jumped in his seat, a little alarmed but also excited by my blustering tone. ‘Well, yes, of course, but I don’t see—’
‘To find the truth, all we need is money,’ I said confidentially, pouring the solicitor another glass of sherry from the diminished decanter. ‘I have contacts, as I told you earlier. I feel sure we can get to the bottom of all this, and then we can call for a new trial, redeem Mr Wood, save his reputation, and confuse both Goodman and the Jockey Club!’
Bulstrode’s eyes grew round. He accepted the refilled glass. ‘I have to agree that the prospect is—’
‘Exciting! Yes, I knew you’d see it my way!’ My tone was confident. I waited as he drained his glass with an enthusiastic flourish then leant over and once more filled the glass to the brim. It was an investment. ‘I can get Ben Gully on it right away. It’ll need a small advance of course, say five hundred pounds, but I’m sure he’ll be able to get us the information we need.’
‘Five… five hundred pounds.’ Bulstrode paled a little and his hand shook as he lifted his sherry glass for the fifth time. ‘But if we don’t have a principal who will pay us …’
‘Come, come, Bulstrode, you’re a man of means! I’ll put some of my own money into it, of course, but I’m sure you can find five hundred for a private investigation of the circumstances surrounding Wood v Peel! We’re seekers after truth and justice, after all. And think of the glory afterwards, when we prove what’s to prove. Consider the publicity! It will be the talk of the City! Bulstrode and James … what a combination, hey? Irresistible!’
The images burned in his mind. I could see the pride in his eyes as Bulstrode beamed his pleasure and he waved his glass happily. But, as he drank, a little doubt crept back, and the doubts returned. He wrinkled his nose, picked at his lip with an uncertain finger, and eyed me a little uneasily. He sighed. ‘It’s not an easy matter, Mr James. The prospect is extremely attractive of course … and you’re absolutely right.’ He hiccupped loudly, and put an apologetic hand to his mouth. ‘We should … we should regard this perhaps as a matter of public duty. But though I cannot dispute I am other than a man of some means, I’ve already expended a considerable amount of money on this case … sums which I could not in all conscience call upon Mr Wood to furnish … and I’m not at all sure that a further advance….’
His voice died away miserably. I allowed the silence to grow around us, embarrassingly. It requires patience to land a struggling fish. At last, I shrugged and in a careless tone, I said, ‘Well, it don’t signify. If you think the matter of insufficient importance….’
Bulstrode wriggled unhappily at the hint of contempt in my voice. ‘I didn’t say….’
‘No matter. The villains will get away with it, but that’s the way of the world.’ I paused, eyeing the ceiling. ‘So, you’re up here in London for a few days, then, Bulstrode?’
‘That’s right, Mr James,’ the solicitor replied, eager to get away from the painful subject of a further advance. ‘I’ve just deposited another brief for you with Mr Villiers. It’s not going to be a cause célèbre of course, but it involves the second son of Lord Cantelupe, and a certain actress who is bringing a charge against him for breach of promise. There are some compromising letters—’
‘Oh, I’m sure we can do something for the second son of Lord Cantelupe,’ I interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. ‘However, I take it you’ll be staying in London overnight, of course.’
Bulstrode nodded eagerly. ‘For a few days in fact. I have lodgings at….’
‘I was recently elected a member of the Devonshire Club. Sponsored by Lord Clanricarde, as a matter of fact. I shall be dining there later tonight and if you don’t happen to have an engagement this evening perhaps you’d care to join me there, as my guest for dinner.’
Bulstrode beamed. ‘Mr James, I—’
‘Count d’Orsay often puts in an appearance at the club,’ I remarked casually. ‘And the Earl of Chesterfield is a member, as is Lord Lytton. It’s quite a good table, too. Sometimes there’s whist afterwards. Or roly poly. On the other hand, perhaps it would be more to your taste after dinner to step out into the Haymarket….’
‘Mr James,’ Bulstrode positively glowed, ‘I’d be honoured to accept your invitation!’
The line had been paid out, the hook swallowed. The fish was almost netted.
In those days, during the daylight hours the Strand and the Haymarket were quiet enough, with occasional newsboys plying their wares, men strolling to or from their offices, carts and carriages rattling along to the West End. But as you might be aware, my boy, when dusk fell the character of the area changed. The night houses opened their doors in the Strand, the Haymarket, Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. Brightly dressed whores emerged from Catherine Street to parade in their finery under the gas lamps near the theatres, and the gin palaces, hotels, French restaurants, and oyster shops lit up the area, did a roaring trade while the coffee houses who had kept blinds drawn all day now gleamed their windows onto the street. The scene was all very familiar to me: Windmill Street crowded with flash men and fast women, cabs and carriages jostling along the cobbles to deposit young men out for an evening’s entertainment, old hags selling fruit and flowers, dollymops arm in arm, giggling as they eyed up the young bucks with their curling whiskers. As the theatres emptied towards midnight the dancing saloons became crowded and the supper lounges were filled with bullies and whores, pickpockets and thieves, fools and rogues. At midnight they all came spilling out of the Argyll Rooms calling for broughams, or hansom cabs, or staggering on to a one of the numerous night houses: the army, navy, the universities, the Inns of Court, the City and the Stock Exchange all were well represented.
I was well aware that for a gentleman like Bulstrode, up from the country, it could be a dazzling, exciting scene: sherry cobblers and cigars in a Haymarket coffee house, a roaring chorus in the Café Chantant, comic songs in the Cave of Harmony, and the Judge and Jury Society in the Garrick’s Head, under the lead of ‘Chief Baron’ Renton Nicholson.
‘You’ll enjoy this,’ I assured Bulstrode as I paid the shilling to enter and manoeuvred the inebriated solicitor into a seat at the back of the crowded room. The fee included a glass of grog and a cigar and I was certain it would be money well spent. I pointed out to Bulstrode the notorious Renton Nicholson. A burly, coarse-looking individual with a red face and leering style, he sat at a raised desk railed off and facing a table set for ‘counsel’ and a makeshift jury box. He was dressed in tattered court robes with a wig worn askew and an eyeglass screwed into his left eye. ‘Counsel’ had been made up to resemble noted advocates and they gave exaggerated imitations of peculiar mannerisms and oratorical flights. One of them, I noted sourly, was wearing white gloves. They were already well launched into tonight’s parody of a recent criminal conversation case with which most of the audience were familiar and Nicholson and his supporting ‘counsel’ were drawing from the participants as much by way of salacious comment, obscenity and double entendres as was possible.
When we had finished our grog, I called for gin and water, and Bulstrode sat gaping as the ‘Chief Baron’ demanded further evidence of the witnesses as to what they had observed of the adulterous relationship in question.
‘So you applied your eye to the hole?’
‘Not only my eye, m’lud!’
‘And what did you see?’
‘More’n I ever did see before, m’lud … or behind!’
The drunken audience hooted with raucous laughter and Bulstrode reached for his gin. Sherry, wine at dinner, and now grog and gin had worked their spe
ll. He raised the glass to his mouth shakily, spilling some of it over the gilt buttons of his waistcoat, and gaped at me owlishly. ‘Shplendid evening, shplendid!’ Then the glass dropped, and shattered on the floor. Bulstrode glared at it as though it had committed some unpar-donable offence and then blinked, slowly closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. It had been a long and exciting day and the alcohol was finally getting to him. His blubbery lips pursed, a small bubble emerged and popped silently and a little sigh of satisfaction escaped him. He would remember little of the Judge and Jury Society.
‘Strange company you keep, James!’
I glanced up: Lieutenant Edward Crosier Hilliard, with yet another dollymop. He was drunk, his mouth loose, his eyes vacant. ‘May I sit down? Legs a bit tottery, don’t you know.’ He gave the bold-eyed girl he was with a shove. ‘You can push off now; I found a friend.’
She began to protest but saw the danger in his eye, and after a moment flounced away. I glared distastefully at the hussar officer. The company was little to my liking, but Hilliard was drunk and it was easier to humour him.
‘Who’s your friend?’ Hilliard mumbled, staring at Bulstrode.
‘A professional acquaintance.’
‘Up from the country, I see,’ Crosier Hilliard said, looking him over and sneering at the cut of his coat, and the gilt-buttoned waistcoat. ‘Can always tell, you know. They have a smell about them. What’s his line? Cattle? Pigs?’
‘He’s a solicitor,’I replied in a cool tone.
‘Same thing, begod!’ Hilliard guffawed. He repeated the comment, finding it hilarious, and then jerked his head about, beckoned to the waiter, thumped on the table, calling for gin. He turned back to me, grinning wolfishly. ‘See that dollymop I was with? Had her last week. But couldn’t be bothered tonight. Stale meat, you know, James. You seen Grenwood lately?’
Hilliard’s whiskers were stained with nicotine and his dress coat was marked at the lapels with spilled wine. I stared at him with contempt. While freely plying the Exeter solicitor I had kept my own drinking under control this evening, aware I would have to get Bulstrode back to his lodgings, and still with a task to perform. I shook his head. ‘Haven’t seen Grenwood since I came across the two of you at Hampstead Heath.’