Breaths of Suspicion

by Roy Lewis

  It was a slogan that appealed to the cheering crowd before they repaired to the Anchor Inn for the usual refreshments.

  The next thing to do was to appoint a small committee on whom I could rely. Sir Alexander Cockburn was the first to figure on my list: I also brought on board a local solicitor with an extensive range of social contacts, a Mr Medwin, who had a spreading belly and an air of sagacity, which he backed with a sharp, calculating mind. It was on his recommendation that I added to the group a local man, Mr Lintott, who was in close touch with other landowners of consequence as the largest and richest tradesman in the town, flattered to be brought in to work with such elevated company. But we also needed an enforcer. It was for that reason I turned to my old acquaintance, Ben Gully.

  He came down for a private conference with me at the Black Horse Hotel. He had dressed for the occasion, out of town. He wore a dark, well-cut greatcoat and dark corduroy breeches, while his black kid gloves demonstrated he was a man of business. He could not disguise the rearranged features, of course, the result of various violent encounters in dark corners of the city, but there were many gentlemen of quality who sported broken noses and fractured jaws: after all, it was a matter of honour in those days that young gentlemen should familiarize themselves with the pugilistic arts. In Ben’s case, however, his battering had not taken place under the rules of the Marquis of Queensbury.

  He eyed me carefully, one eye wandering as usual as he scanned the room, while I explained the position.

  ‘It’s like this, Ben. The organization of the campaign will be masterminded by me, and I have formed a small committee that will be able to determine on tactics and indeed, counteract the actions of our opponents. But inevitably there will come occasions when plans can go awry, when tactics fail, and when—to put it plainly—a certain degree of action will be demanded. And for that, we shall need a determined fellow who will be able to act swiftly and decisively.’

  Ben Gully took a swallow of his porter and grunted doubtfully. ‘Thing is, Mr James, politics ain’t really my field.’

  ‘The back streets of any town or city are not much different from others. Cudgels come out, drunkards get waylaid, pockets get picked and … electors can get persuaded. I need someone who can keep an eye on that sort of thing, advise me, and if necessary take action himself, and quickly.’

  ‘He’ll need something about him, other than his fists,’ Gully said thoughtfully. ‘If he’s going to mingle successfully with gentlemen.’

  ‘A well-known member of the swell mob won’t do, Ben.’

  ‘I see that, Mr James. On the other hand … you ever have dealings with a Captain Thomas?’

  I grimaced, shook my head.

  Gully grunted. ‘I transacted a certain business lately, which brought me into contact with Captain William Lanham Thomas, late of the Indian Army.’ His glance rose, fixed upon mine. ‘On half-pay now. Possibly left India under a cloud. Rumour speaks of mess funds not properly accounted for.’

  So probably needing money. I frowned. A gentleman, an ex-officer, not well known in London society.… ‘A hard man?’

  ‘I seen some evidence of it,’ Ben Gully remarked almost casually.

  ‘You can recommend him?’

  I had a deal of confidence in Ben Gully. No one knew the London scene as he did. No one knew the back alleys and the rookeries of St Giles, the tricks of the magsmen and the sharps, the bullies and the pimps. But he also knew those who lived on the edges of the underworld, gentlemen who had fallen on hard times, men of quality who now dealt in doubtful activities to make a living; others who sought to climb the social ladder from the villas in St John’s Wood that they had acquired with fortunes won at the edge of legality. I trusted Ben’s judgment because it was based on solid knowledge.

  After a short silence, Ben murmured, ‘I think he would serve your purpose, Mr James.’

  I met Captain William Lanham Thomas on the Friday of that same week.

  I got to know him quite well in the weeks that followed our agreement to work together in support of young John Jervis’s campaign. The gallant captain had indeed returned from India some months previously and was still settling into a gentlemanly routine. The captain was not experienced in election campaigns, of course, but I soon learned that he was shrewd, decisive and showed on occasion a fierce determination to get what he wanted. Nor was he averse to the odd scuffle. He was some six feet in height, of a lean muscular stature, had fine whiskers that denoted the gentleman but he knew his common man, and he had an air of cold-eyed efficiency that proved more than useful in the campaign.

  That day of our first acquaintance, I had the feeling that he was weighing me up as much as I was him.

  ‘So Mr Jervis has considerable political backing,’ he observed coolly.

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘And that will mean access to sources of considerable funds.’

  ‘The campaign will be more than adequately funded,’ I admitted.

  ‘So there will be no problem of payment. You will note, Mr James, I am a practical man.’

  If not a complete gentleman. But I knew what it was like to be dunned by creditors. We quickly agreed upon matters of recompense for the captain’s involvement.

  ‘And what exactly will be my duties?’ he inquired, his glacial blue eyes fixed carelessly upon mine.

  ‘You will be a member of the campaign committee but will not advise on tactical matters. Rather, you will be our ear to the ground, the supplier of information regarding the activities of the other side, our adviser on methods to prevent the accomplishment of Mr Fitzgerald’s designs, whatever they might be, and the man who will see to it that what is necessary to be done, will be done.’

  He smiled coldly, and stroked his luxurious moustache gently with a loving forefinger. ‘I gain the impression, sir, that this work would not greatly interfere with my predilection towards the frequenting of racecourses, public houses and gambling dens, convivial gatherings of ouvriérs in public houses and the occasional bout of fisticuffs.’ As he spoke he twirled in his hand the cane he carried: the knob was of solid brass, and I suspected it was a sword cane. His meaning was quite clear to me.

  ‘You are a man after my own heart, Captain Thomas.’

  Ben Gully had chosen and recommended well.

  And indeed, Captain Thomas soon proved himself to be an efficient tool in our hands, in most cases acting discreetly so no blame could attach, and after the Horsham campaign I came across him from time to time, though I never had occasion to employ him further. I had the honour of representing him in court on a few occasions, in affairs both of the heart and honour, in which a degree of violence on his part had proved inevitable, and you could say we had become close acquaintances at a certain level. I knew he would be a useful addition to the team should the expected difficulties arise during the campaign. I gave him no hand in the preparation of the candidate’s election address for that was not his forte, but I knew full well his strong arm would come in useful. But I’ll come to that later.

  Sir John Jervis had assured me that money was not a problem, so once he had called in favours from a few local friends we began our first canvass of the local electorate. This necessitated approaching every public house and beer shop in the parish, flying flags and Blue favours and agreeing that the publicans should keep their cellars open to all: if a voter required a drink it should be supplied and the bill sent on to me.

  We began with the attractively meaningless slogan Independence for the Borough and slandered Fitzgerald politically and personally with strong drink. I set up our first champagne dinner at the Anchor Hotel, served wine, brandy, punch and laid down the basis for numerous headaches next morning. At the Black Horse I called an Amalgamation Dinner to celebrate the fact that we had already managed to bring over to our side a number of Pink electors who had previously supported Fitzgerald. The dinner—which included salmon, duck, chicken, ham and tongue—was held with Mr Medwin in the chair: there was an elegant sprea
d, numerous healths were drunk to, toasts were given and plans were laid for attracting as many voters as possible to the Jervis and Liberal cause. My account book showed payment for one hundred and twenty-four bottles of wine, thirty-eight bowls of punch and a considerable quantity of ale and stout as I laid down the basis for what a sour Lord George Bentinck was already castigating as ‘sinister and daring activities’.

  While my committee worked from The Nunnery at Rusper, we fixed our campaign headquarters, for obvious reasons in view of the anticipated thirst of the voters, at the Crown Hotel. I then established agents, sub-agents and friends at as many beer shops as we were able in the parish: the Crown, the Star, the Shelley Arms, the Horse and Groom, the White Horse and the Red Lion among others and all were thrown open to voters, the cellars were filled to capacity and the Brewers and Spirit Merchants were warned that during the ensuing weeks there would be an uncommon run on their commodities. They duly brought in new stock.

  Our Tory opponent, Fitzgerald, was not idle, of course, in that respect: the Pinks claimed the Black Horse, the Swan, the Green Dragon and the Dog and Bacon among other hostelries, so never let it be said, as Bentinck’s lapdog politicians later averred, that the treating and drunkenness in the Horsham election was all one-sided. During the run-up to the election it soon became established that a voter of either persuasion or none could go to any public house and obtain any kind of refreshment he desired without offering payment, for the landlords knew where they would obtain financial satisfaction. It was inevitable, of course, that lovers of small beer now discovered more aristocratic beverages; friends were encouraged to join in parties of five or more and it quickly became apparent to me that lemonade-and-brandy was becoming the most popular beverage, the new fashionable drink in Horsham. So it was soon a common sight during those weeks to see these lemonade-and-brandy politicians staggering along the pavements en route to yet another public house of refreshment. Wives brought out jugs and visited the houses, or sent their children to collect refreshment in the name of our candidate. Fitzgerald soon cottoned on to the practice and began to urge a similar pattern on his prospective supporters.

  A number of side bets were laid down at the time, which Captain Thomas closely monitored by personally attending the taverns and hostelries and when the swell of opinion was reported to me I knew we had to canvass more widely. As a consequence I instituted a series of public meetings. The first was at the Crown; the third, a really big ‘do’, was at the Anchor Hotel.

  We arrived in a four-horse coach: pale-featured young John Jervis, gallantly moustached Captain Thomas and the portly Mr Medwin, together with ‘Bulldog’ Cockburn and ‘Big-Headed’ Jimmy as we two lawyers were now nicknamed by frequenters of the taverns. The main room of the Anchor was packed with all conditions of men. I had previously ordered one hundred bowls of punch and John Jervis was proposed, seconded, adopted, toasted and all were thereafter given wine, brandy, punch and cigars, to everyone’s satisfaction. Songs were roared out and speeches given and although formalities were concluded by 10 p.m., the carousing continued well into the early hours of the morning.

  The locals soon roared out a ditty, sung to the tune of Buffalo Girls. I remember it well:

  Horsham Boys won’t you come out tonight

  Come out tonight, come out tonight,

  Horsham boys won’t you come out tonight

  For a drunk with Jervis and James.

  Of course, I should have foreseen that when other landlords noted the success of the Anchor ‘do’ they would clamour for similar opportunities to be granted them and we were forced to continue, as Fitzgerald followed in our train. There were big ‘dos’ at the chief Inns and Hotels, and small ‘dos’ in the beer shops. Handsome suppers, drinks and cigars interspersed with speeches were the order of the day. But when Fitzgerald saw that we were lopping off a number of his followers, whatever sense of ethics he held deserted him and his supporters.

  And that’s when it all began. I got blamed for it later, of course, but I swear it was Fitzgerald who started the real skulduggery. With Bentinck backing him to the hilt. On the other hand, I suppose I have to admit I was better at it than his agent was, and Captain Thomas soon proved his mettle.

  The crunch came at a ‘do’ at the Shelley Arms. I was determined to outdo whatever Fitzgerald had been able to offer. On that one evening our liquor consumption was extraordinary, not least because railway navigators working on the Three Bridges to Horsham line joined us in some numbers; I was upstairs at supper with young John Jervis—who was roaring drunk—Mr Medwin, Cockburn and several voters of consequence while the rooms below were crowded with electors and their hangers-on, many outside struggling to gain entrance, some fighting over ladders to get in at upstairs windows. It was a scene of roistering, good-natured pandemonium and the Nuthurst Band of about nine players was performing joyously on the green outside as brandy was served to all in wine glasses and tumblers. I had just personally performed the song The Old English Gentleman and was standing on a table.

  ‘May I propose the health of Mrs Whiting and the ladies of Horsham!’ I roared.

  Mrs Whiting was actually a chimneysweep’s wife who kept the Travellers Rest beer shop and I’d just caught sight of her filling a kettle with punch to take home. Others were collecting up baskets of pickled salmon, duck, chicken, ham, tongue. Grog was being ladled into tea cups from pails, and there were some inevitable disagreements downstairs, settled by some of Captain Thomas’s ‘convincers’ armed with the legs of smashed chairs. It was all part of the game. As I waved my glass from the vantage point of the table and cheers resounded and further toasts were called for, Cockburn, who was well in his cups at the time, tapped at my leg.

  ‘Get down from there! Get down!’ he roared.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Captain Thomas,’ he shouted against the roar of the drunken revellers. ‘He’s downstairs. He wants to talk to you. Matter of urgency.’

  And urgent it certainly proved to be.

  I finished my glass of champagne and made my way down the stairs. I was directed to a small snug behind the taproom. Captain Thomas was waiting for me there. His necktie was astray, and there was a red mark below his left eye. I closed the door behind me: he and I were alone together.

  ‘There’s been trouble?’ I asked gesturing towards his eye.

  ‘Nothing I couldn’t handle, Mr James. Constable Green. It seems he was concerned about the noise and the goings-on upstairs and came in to make inquiry.’

  ‘I suppose that’s his job.’

  ‘I think he’s been got at by the Pinks,’ Captain Thomas observed. ‘And we had words. High words.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He wanted to go upstairs. I told him to sling his hook. He decided to make an issue of it. I presented him with some … ah … unmentionable compliments and advised him to leave. It’s then he swung his stick at me.’ He fingered the red swelling below his eye: there was a malicious glint in the glance he gave me. ‘I escorted him from the premises. Firmly. Last I saw he was sitting in the mud in the Market Square.’

  Not very wise, I thought, but what’s done is done. ‘I leave such matters to you, Captain. Is that why you called me down here?’

  The gallant officer shook his head. ‘No. The fact is, there’s things you need to be apprised of. Mr Fitzgerald is raising the stakes.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I think it best you listen to my informant.’

  He turned aside, opened the door and stepped outside into the narrow passage beyond. I heard a murmured conversation and a short while afterwards Captain Thomas returned. With him was a big, red-faced man who was holding his billycock hat in his hands. But there was nothing subservient about him: shifty, yes, but he had determined eyes and, I guessed, a hard, unscrupulous heart.

  ‘Mr James, may I present Charlie Feist.’

  We did not shake hands. I stared at the newcomer. While I had no recollection of having previousl
y met him, the name had a familiar ring. After a moment alarm bells began to chime in my head: this man had a reputation. We stood there in silence in the dimly lit room while I dredged for recollections, stories of previous events, earlier elections.…

  ‘Charles Feist,’ I murmured. ‘A former shoemaker, I believe.’

  ‘Them days is behind me, Mr James.’ His voice was hoarse and deep.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I replied as stories came flooding back into my head. ‘I believe you’re now known as Lawyer Feist, having attached yourself to a legal office after working as a bum-bailiff.’

  ‘I knows a bit of law,’ Feist admitted

  And I knew about Charlie Feist. At every contested election of recent years in Horsham he had played an active and prominent part—though not always on the same side. He cut his coat according to the money he could make from that garment: he weighed up and compared the prospective benefits to be obtained from each party before declaring his allegiance. He claimed an intimate knowledge of the borough and to be able to bear influence on a considerable number of voters, come polling day. I also knew that in this particular election he had already been active in our opponent’s behalf.

  ‘I also knows, the way things is running, that there’s only about six votes in it, at present,’ he added in a low growl.

  You must appreciate that in those days before voting reform the eligible voters in Horsham numbered only some four hundred, and my own estimate at that point in time agreed with that of Charlie Feist. I shrugged. ‘So why is it you want to see me?’

  Charlie Feist hesitated, glanced at Captain Thomas, and then boldly announced, ‘I received £40 cash from Mr Nelthorpe, for my support of Mr Fitzgerald and the Pinks.’