by Roy Lewis
‘So it was Bentinck!’
Goodman shrugged. ‘As you must have guessed, it had to be one of us. And it wasn’t me.’ He paused, nodding. ‘A man of great arrogance, and pride, Lord George. He’d pushed for the barring of the colt before the race because of his suspicions – and his general distrust of my involvement. And after the race he pressed Colonel Peel into welshing – not that it was of great consequence to me. I’d spread my betting in convenient ways. Of course, Bentinck thought that Mr Wood, our corn merchant, would be more of a gentleman than to go to court. But he was wrong. And then the hearing did not proceed as he might have wished. Not least, your tactics – they were yours, weren’t they? I noted that your leader, Mr Cockburn, was keeping his own head down. Too much to lose, perhaps. I hear he may soon be taking up a judicial appointment.’
I made no comment on my leader’s motives in leaving me to the lions. ‘And when Baron Alderson demanded production of the colt?’
‘Arrogance, pride … and doubt,’ Goodman murmured, almost to himself. ‘Lord George was in a dilemma: he had to face the possibility that he might have been wrong about the age of the animal. Or that the veterinarian surgeon might have been … suborned. Which I would probably have managed, I admit. It would have done Bentinck’s reputation no good to have been ridiculed further in court. You had already done a good job in that respect … but if he was shown to have been wrong all the time….’
‘So he paid Sam McGuire to steal the horse, and get rid of it.’
‘A somewhat foolish and reckless idea, but it worked, I suppose, and brought the proceedings to an end. And, oddly enough, although it was Lord George’s doing, it served my purposes well enough, too. On the other hand, it was also an act of betrayal by my servant Sam McGuire. I couldn’t allow him to escape scot-free after betraying me for Bentinck’s tin. That’s why I was looking for him, though only half-heartedly, I admit. Not certain what to do about him, you see.’
He paused, glanced back at Porky Clark, hovering behind him. He raised an elegantly gloved hand, beckoned the pugilist forward into the gaslight. Porky Clark stood before us, his head down. His eyes were swollen, I noticed, and there was a large lump on the line of his jaw. He also moved awkwardly, dragging his right leg slightly. They were not injuries he had received in the ring.
‘Bentinck suborned McGuire but the stableman drew in my hired man in addition. Foolish.’ His cold eyes swept over the hang-dog prizefighter. ‘I could make the stupid Learned Pig recognize the error of his ways, betraying me for a fistful of tin. As you see, he has already paid for his part in the business. He’ll not let me down again.’
All this failed to clear the whole picture for me. ‘But you still wanted to pay back McGuire. And what did Joe Bartle have to do with it all? Was it McGuire who killed Bartle? And why did Bartle have to die?’
Goodman was silent for a little while. We resumed our walking. The sound of our steps on the cobbled street echoed against darkened doorways. After a moment Goodman chuckled, and shook his head. ‘You do scrabble your fingers into all sorts of pies, don’t you, young man?’ He cocked his handsome head, glanced at me. ‘No, it wasn’t McGuire who beat Bartle to death.’
‘You?’ I demanded. ‘Was it you, then? Or … or was it Bentinck, or on his orders?’ I was thinking furiously. ‘It must have been Bentinck’s doing! After we found Bartle’s body in the sewers I laid an information at Bow Street but it was not proceeded with! Inspector Redfern came to see me, hinted that someone had influenced the Commissioner to step aside from the murder, pursue it less than zealously. Only Bentinck could have been the one who had the power and influence to do that, pulled strings on a marionette—’
‘No, not Bentinck,’ Goodman interrupted me in a quiet tone. ‘That was me.’
‘But how—?’
‘It’s not only members of the aristocracy who can pull strings, Mr James. You’ve been to my clubs, haunted my night houses. You know the kind of people who go there to gamble, to seek whores, to indulge in some of the most curious practices one might ever see, in privately hired rooms away from the vulgar gaze. One of them is our revered Commissioner. But the fact is, there are always eyes … behind mirrors, at keyholes, drilled spy holes in ceilings …’
‘The Commissioner—’
‘Knows when discretion is the better part of valour in the pursuit of his ends.’ Casually, Goodman suddenly linked his arm through mine and we strolled forward together, matching steps. ‘Yes, it was I who persuaded the Commissioner to put a brake on Inspector Redfern. It required only a gentle hint, an anonymous note…. But in any case, Bartle’s death, it had nothing to do with the matter of the unfortunate Running Rein.’
‘I remain to be persuaded of that,’ I replied stiffly.
We were close to Temple Court. Goodman was silent for a little while. Then he clucked his tongue gently. ‘You’re a remarkable man, Mr James, a fine, witty, aggressive advocate. You’ll be a capital man with a jury, but sometimes you have, shall we say, an unfortunate predilection to dogma. An idea gets into your head, you form an impression about a man’s character – and you can’t move away from it, to see the truth.’ He glanced at me, a wicked gleam in his eye. ‘I promise you, I had nothing to do with the killing of Joe Bartle.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘That’s of little consequence,’ Goodman replied, taking no offence. His dark eyes remained fixed on me, his hand still clamped on my elbow. ‘The fact is, Mr Bartle had a sister.’
‘So?’
‘You’ll have heard Bartle was somewhat distracted at the stables on the Wednesday before the trial. When McGuire checked with him on that day, to make sure he would stick to the agreed story at the hearing, he announced he wouldn’t be attending. He had other things to do. He was on the lookout for the man who had seduced his sister.’
I stopped dead. I turned, stared at Goodman. He smiled. ‘That’s right. The unfortunate girl had got herself pregnant. And the … gentleman, he was disinclined to do anything about it. Bartle was furious. He sought him out, unsuccessfully. Badgered him in the street. Made a nuisance of himself. Finally tracked him down at Hampstead Heath, on the Sunday.’ Goodman’s fingers tightened on my arm. ‘It turned out to be a most unpleasant business. The girl, you see, ended up in the river, I’m told.’
Harriet.
There was a cold stone lying in my chest.
Lewis Goodman smiled. ‘No, Bartle’s death had nothing to do with me, or McGuire, or even the Running Rein business. It was simply what might be described as a family matter.’
‘What happened?’ I demanded hoarsely.
Goodman shrugged diffidently. ‘Bartle approached the gentleman in question on the Heath. On Sunday. They had words, there was a scuffle. Bartle was beside himself with rage. I intervened, my friends held Bartle back, and I persuaded the said gentleman to leave with me, go back to London. But within two miles, on a deserted road, our carriage horse went lame. Bartle caught up with us. Further words were exchanged.’
He glanced back over his shoulder to the hulking man behind us. ‘Porky and I, we saw it all. Poor Bartle, a strong man, but he stood little chance. Our gentleman friend, much incensed by the diatribe launched at him by Bartle, lost his temper I fear. Clubbed the man to death, there in that lonely road.’
Astonished, I said, ‘You stood by and let it happen?’
Goodman’s tone changed slightly, hardened. ‘It was none of my business, James. And none of yours.’
‘The sewer—’
‘Porky organised that,’ Goodman replied carelessly, ‘while I took the gentleman back to The Quadrant for an evening’s entertainment.’ He paused, chuckled. ‘You might ask why I helped the person in question. You must understand me, James. It was not my business, but on the other hand when something like that happens there might come a day when information of that kind might come in useful.’
I stopped, glared at him coldly. ‘So Lester Grenwood has made his way to France not just to escape his debts.
He wants to avoid your blackmail, also!’
Goodman stared at me, and I became aware of a slow smile stealing across his handsome, shadowed features. ‘Well, well, well, Mr James. You surprise me. So you’ve guessed the identity … you know more about this business than I suspected. I shall have to keep an eye on you, shan’t I?’
There was a certain admiration in his tone that offended me. Porky Clark was still hovering in the background, menacingly, but my rash temper got the better of me. ‘You stood by and watched Grenwood beat that poor man to death. What’s to prevent me laying an information now, against you, as well as that bastard Grenwood?’
There was a brief silence. On the river a foghorn moaned eerily; the gas lamps at Temple Court flared and I could hear the early morning traffic, wagons and carts bearing produce for the markets, rattling across Waterloo Bridge. I had a sudden vision of a warm, sad-eyed girl, pleading in the Cider Cellars, but the memory was swiftly overlaid by the remembrance of a sodden, dripping corpse being pulled out of the river at Wapping. I laughed bitterly. A mad fury seized me. ‘You’re so damned confident, Goodman. But you’ve made a mistake with me. Don’t you realize now you’ve told me the whole story you’ve put yourself in jeopardy? You’ve now admitted to me that you entered a criminal conspiracy to defraud; and you’ve admitted to being an accessory to the murder of Joe Bartle. I could tell this story in court with great fluency—’
‘But you won’t, will you?’ Goodman interrupted in a soft but menacing tone. ‘Your word against mine, that’s all there is.’
‘The word of a gentleman,’ I said hotly, ‘against a gambling whoreson who’d sell—’
‘Ah, doucement, Mr James. We won’t talk too much about gambling, will we? Tut, tut,’ Goodman admonished, gripping my arm tightly. ‘And you really should be more careful, speaking that way about your major creditor.’
I was stunned for a moment. ‘Creditor? I’ve borrowed nothing from you! What are you—’
‘I’ve been watching you, Mr James. I have rather admired your determination and perspicacity. In the courtroom, and outside. So I’ve been asking around …’ Goodman smiled gently. ‘Have you not noticed that your creditors have fallen away, recently? Have you not asked yourself why?’
‘I—’
‘It’s because I recently decided to buy up all your paper in the market. There really is rather a lot of it, isn’t there?’ He smiled, wolfishly. ‘You really have been chancing your hand at the tables. Chicken hazard, in particular, I believe. But I admire you, and your splendid work at the bar, and who knows, I might need the services of an eminent lawyer some time in the future. My profession is a somewhat, ah … shall we say, precarious one. Yes, I’ve bought up your paper, Mr James, but I don’t intend calling it in. Not as long as you … shall we say … behave sensibly?’
The fury in my chest raged, and I half raised my stick. The figure of Porky Clark moved forward, lurching menacingly in the dimness behind Goodman. Then slowly the rage in my blood cooled. I realized the implications of Goodman’s comment. He held my paper: if he called it in at once he could ruin me. I took a deep breath, and was silent.
Goodman stared at me for a long while. Behind him, Porky Clark’s breath rasped harshly in the still air as he waited, powerful shoulders hunched, for a word from his master. At last Goodman nodded, almost casually. ‘We’ll leave it there then – understanding each other.’ He turned his head. ‘I think we’ve escorted Mr James far enough, Porky. We’ll walk back to the Haymarket, now.’
He touched his hat with his cane, turned and began to stroll back towards Savoy Place. I glared at his receding figure with feelings of rage mingled with impotence.
Suddenly Goodman stopped, looked back and laughed. ‘By the way, you’ll be hearing from some of my friends soon. Gentlemen in difficulty, one might say. The briefs they bring will help you; they’ll be fat, even though you might not care too much for the clientele.’ He laughed again, the sound echoing eerily down the dark streets. ‘But I’m also a gambling man, Mr James. Never let it be said I will play only if I hold all the high cards. I’ll give you a chance to recover some of your financial standing. The truth is I put two ringers in the Derby – Running Rein and Lysander. I did well out of the business. Well, take my advice. Put as much money as you can on The Trickster, in the Chester Cup next week.’
The echo of his laughter seemed to ring back at me long after the man had disappeared into the gloom.
And you know, my boy, I was so incensed that I failed to take his advice. I placed no wager on The Trickster. Not that it would have cleared all my debts anyway. But it would have helped.
Anyway, that’s how it all began. It’s a matter of record: my meteoric rise in the courts, on the back of the Running Rein case, and the clients that Goodman sent me, rogues and villains all, but prepared to pay well for my services. My swift rise, and my even more meteoric fall some years later. Which, after my American adventures, finally brought me back to England, to this humble lodging house, with that miserable housemaid….
So there it is…. But you know, things are never what they seem. You think you have all the answers, and then something occurs to confound you again, wonder whether you really have got to the truth. It was a week later that my clerk Villiers came into my chambers, dumped a pile of law reports on my desk and then stood there, hesitated. ‘By the way, Mr James, did you see that report in The Times today?’
‘What report?’
‘The Chester Cup, at Chester. It was won by a horse called The Trickster.’
And I’d put no money on it. I scowled. ‘So?’
Villiers chuckled. ‘Lord George Bentinck was running a horse in the same race. Apparently he started that old song all over again.’
‘What song?’
‘You know, claiming the race was won unfairly. He shouted that the horse that came in first – The Trickster – was a ringer.’
After what Goodman had told me I had little doubt on that score.
‘Moreover,’ Villiers continued, ‘he averred that it bore a more than remarkable resemblance to the horse that won the Derby.’
‘What?’
Villiers nodded. ‘That’s right. You know, sir. Running Rein.’
Afterword
I HAVE NO reason to doubt most of what my stepfather told me that night in 1881, for a large part of what he recounted can be confirmed from other, published sources. His account certainly clears up a number of mysteries that surrounded the running of the Derby in 1844.
I consider it well to point out however that his story would not have been completely accurate in all its details: many who were his confidantes over the years considered him to be a good companion, but one somewhat inclined to boast and exaggerate his exploits. Indeed, I have been informed often enough (even by my mother) that Mr James was above all an amoral rogue, but no more of that.
The events he described to me that evening over several pints of porter had occurred some forty years earlier and no doubt some of his comments were affected by the hazy memory of an elderly man. For instance, the discovery of Harriet’s body could not have taken place on the day the Lord Mayor’s barge collided with Westminster Bridge since that event occurred in September 1844, not July. As for Mr James seeing ‘Tony’ Trollope in the Cider Cellars it is worth noting that Mr Trollope was never known as ‘Tony’. However, his account of the Running Rein trial may be confirmed by newspaper reports, although oddly enough he is mistaken in stating Sir Fitzroy Kelly was Solicitor General at that time. The post was actually held by Sir Frederick Thesiger, who was later elevated to the position of Lord Chancellor.
He was not inaccurate in stating that while a Member of Parliament he was with Guiseppe Garibaldi on the march to Rome, indeed an engraving of him in Garibaldi’s camp appeared in the Illustrated London News. Charles Dickens certainly lampooned Mr James in A Tale of Two Cities; Lewis Goodman was a well-known villain with important underworld connections, and Mr James assuredly reached later career h
eights as a Queen’s Counsel in his Old Bailey practice. There was also considerable newspaper rumour to the effect that when my stepfather was MP in the Liberal cause for the important seat of Marylebone, his name was known to have been put forward in 1860 to become Solicitor General, only for the appointment to be blocked on the advice of Prince Albert.
And perhaps, in view of his aversion to reading, he can be excused for referring to Mr Wilkie Collins’s sensation novel as The Moonshine. A mere slip of the tongue. It was entitled, of course, The Moonstone.
But I need to stress that in 1881 Mr James was, after all, an old, forgetful and boastful man looking back over a successful though ultimately scandalous career that many have suggested had been a waste of considerable talent. On the other hand, throughout my long conversations with him I was left with the impression that, wasteful or not, Mr James had really rather enjoyed his life.
Joachim Stocqueler
Master mariner
1881
By the Same Author
Design for Murder
Copyright
© Roy Lewis 2012
First published in Great Britain 2011
This edition 2012
ISBN 978 0 7198 0842 5 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0843 2 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0844 9 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7090 9271 1 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
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The right of Roy Lewis to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988