Dead Ringer

I
MARRIED YOUR
mother, so I suppose you have every right to know about me.

I’ve no doubt you’ll have heard bad things about my life, for I’ve made many enemies in my day, and though I note that you look askance at this dwelling – and the single, miserable maid we have – you should be made aware that we have seen better days. In my heyday I moved among giants. There was a time when that old shyster lawyer Abe Lincoln sought my advice – though, admittedly, he failed to take it. Honest Abe! How he could be called that, with that light-fingered, shop-obsessed wife of his, I’ve never fathomed. And before I went to America I was on the point of being knighted, as Solicitor General, before that pompous prig Prince Albert poked his proboscis into my affairs. I think he was annoyed by the sparkle in little Vicky’s eyes when she spoke to me that day in the Blue Room at Windsor. Because I always did have a way with the women, I admit. Even if, as it’s been rightly said, I have the features of a battered bare-knuckled prizefighter.

But there you are: I took after my mother, you see.

And though you’ll be aware I eke out a meagre living now, giving legal advice here and there in London, I’ll have you know there was a time when I was the highest paid Queen’s Counsel in the land. One of my jealous enemies remarked maliciously that I made my name only in cases involving the reputation of actresses or horses, but that wasn’t so. Name a big case, and I
was retained as counsel. Palmer the Poisoner? I was briefed by the Treasury but they hanged the saintly Billy in spite of his weeping mother’s protestations, but that was old Campbell’s doing. A hanging judge if ever there was one. The Duke of Gloucester, when he was caught exhibiting his erection in the window of his house in Horse Guards Parade? I was on hand to collapse his construction in court. I was the one who proved that the rumours regarding the Bishop of Birmingham – that he shagged young girls while confirmin’ ’em – were untrue. And then there was that scandalous matter of the rocking gondola in Venice: I got Admiral Codrington’s errant wife way out of her depth over that little fling of hers. And we won’t even
talk
about Lord Cardigan’s creaking britches and cracking boots when I told the court about the private detective who was hiding under the sofa on which the hero of the charge of the Light Brigade was cavorting with someone else’s wife.

No, the indisputable fact is that I was once sought by all,
lionized
by Society, £5,000 a year was the remuneration I earned at the Old Bailey and I was made welcome at the greatest of houses: Disraeli’s, Earl Combermere’s, Lord Lucan’s, Lady Holland’s. Never Gladstone’s, of course – we had a spat when I suggested in court that he’d acted like a pimp after Lord Lincoln had eloped with the Duke of Newcastle’s wife and put her in the pudding club. Gladstone took the comment personally, got into a huff, demanded an apology, but dammit, it was just
advocacy
, you know? And I obtained substantial damages for the grocer I was representing, so.…

But there were hundreds of other hearings: you can read them for yourself in back copies of
The Times
. So it wasn’t all just a matter of actresses and horses, though ironically enough, that’s how it all started. Over a horse, I mean. The beginning of my rise; and in a sense, the commencement of my fall.

It was in 1844. The horse was called
Running Rein
.

N
OW
I’
M
NOT
going to pretend I was not getting a little desperate that day in June 1844.

You’re probably well aware that the ruling pleasures of England in those days were gambling, whoring and
bare-knuckled
boxing. I never indulged personally in the last of these … though I went along to enjoy the spectacle, of course. But I was certainly conversant with the others (I mean, few men at some period of their lives have not dealt in mercenary sex and the Temple was conveniently close to the West End for a man to take a young whore back to his chambers late at night) while the gambling clubs were a popular entertainment among young men of affluence and distinction, real or imagined.

During the previous week I’d had a bad run playing at
rouge
et noir
, roly poly (roulette you’d call it nowadays) and chicken hazard at White’s Club. I could have gone to my father but I knew he would be unsympathetic if I asked him to help clear the gathering cloud of my debts: he’d just become Secondary of the City of London and was getting all high, mighty, moral and parsimonious. My maternal grandfather
could
have helped: he’d made a great deal of money in the brewery trade, and he was always fond of me, but I’d tapped the spigot on that cask a little too much lately. So when I met Lester Grenwood that evening in the dandy hell at Bennet Street corner in St James’s … you know, the gambling house that was run by a former clergyman who
used ruined gamblers captained by the Black Dwarf as recruiting officers … I knew I had to be firm with him.

The Honourable Lester Grenwood was all smiles, standing there among a crowd of gamblers, with his black velvet collar and white corduroy breeches. He always did cut a handsome figure with his tall, athletic build, grey eyes sparkling affably. And when he caught sight of me he was affability itself.

‘James! It’s good to see you!’ But he must have seen the combative light in my own eye immediately because he
forestalled
me in my determination to have things out with him. He drew me apart from his companions who were gathered under the glittering chandelier that lit the green baize tables. He laid a hand on my arm, squeezed gently. ‘Now you know I’m demmed grateful for your signature on that paper … what was it? Two hundred?’

‘At three months, and it’s fallen due,’ I growled, ‘and I’m being dunned for it. Look, Grenwood, things are a bit tight at the moment and—’

‘It’s not a problem, James,’ he interrupted breezily, and flashing me a confident smile. ‘You shall have it from me the moment the old man stumps up with my allowance. And in the meanwhile, why don’t you do what I’m going to do? I’m in a tight corner like you, and in such situations it pays to be bold!’

It was then that he gave me the sure fire tip for the Derby. But no money.

‘Grenwood,’ I said firmly, ‘I need
tin
, not tips. And the money you owe me—’

He interrupted me immediately. ‘Short of the ready? That’s no problem!’ He put his arm about my shoulders and guided me across the room to introduce me to a lean, ancient,
Dundreary-whiskered
, shuffle-footed, dead-eyed moneylender of his acquaintance, persuaded me that my short-term debts could be resolved by a flutter on the nags and pressed me to finish a bottle of claret with him. By the end of the evening I concluded that it
would not be Lester Grenwood, but Epsom, and
Running Rein
, that would be the solution to my financial embarrassment.

Epsom. I am aware that you’ve spent most of your young life at sea off the Americas so you probably don’t know what Derby Day was like half a century ago. It was a great national holiday. London emptied early: by mid-morning the dust would be rising high along the Downs as the hansom cabs swarmed out of town. There’d be crowded omnibuses, fast drags bustling along with elegant dandies and their lolling ladies, costermongers’ carts and post-chaises, barouches and phaetons, gigs, donkey carts and vans packed with raucous drunks and casks of beer.

On the course that day, as usual, blue-coated, top-hatted policemen were trying valiantly to control the gangs beyond the gypsy encampment, and the turf was crowded with spreading picnics while the Hill, the Stand and the Corner were already black with people when I arrived – among a mass of peers and pickpockets, tradesmen and turnkeys, parliamentarians, petermen and prostitutes.

I had placed my wagers on the nag Grenwood had
recommended
, but before I entered the Grand Stand to visit the parlours, or take refreshment in the Jockey Club I wandered around enjoying the scene: the betting ring, the groups of plush carriages laden with languid ladies, the ‘glove repetitions’ of the recent pugilistic encounter between Tom Sayers and Sam Martin – I’d lost a bundle on that sanguinary epic at Hampstead Heath too, believe me. There were Punch and Judy shows, performing monkeys, cartwheeling children, and footsore dogs prancing on hot tin cans, as they’d been trained to do by their spangle-dressed owners. In the overall hubbub Italian peasants, albeit with Whitechapel accents, mingled with German bands, painted clowns, red-haired villains playing the three-card trick and hunt the pea stalls that scattered as soon as a constable
approached. It was all there: colour, noise, bustle, excitement. I loved it!

But I was waiting for the moment when the horses and their jockeys came dandling and cantering along the course. I make no pretence: my heart began to beat faster when the last odds were declared at the betting ring, and I had placed a few more wagers on
Running Rein
, and then I watched the churning and the shunting as the sweating animals twisted under tight reins. The jockeys shouted the usual obscenities at each other as they struggled for advantageous position – you seamen before the mast have no monopoly of choice language there, believe me; there was a plunging and shouldering as the crowd on the Hill bayed – and then the moment came, a rush, a trampling of excited hoofs and the great, ululating sound that burst from thousands of throats as the horses surged into motion.

The Sport of Kings, they call it, my boy, and so it is. You’ll not appreciate the roar, the kicking turf, the thunder of hoofs, the colours blurring into a vast swirl against the massed background of surging spectators unless you’ve actually experienced it….

I recall well that the favourite that day was
Ugly Buck,
who’d already won the Two Thousand Guineas. He got caught in the mêlée coming out of Tattenham, there seemed to be a certain amount of deliberate boring, and he veered wide, perhaps knocked out of the rhythm of his stride. The manoeuvre
immediately
cost him his chance and he faded against the rails, caught in the trailing bunch. It was
Orlando
who then took up the running, but he was pressed close: glistening flanks of horseflesh straining close together, whips rising and falling, until the
Lysander
colt was interfered with and came limping to a stop. Thereafter it was a group of five in close contention, with two other colts pressing hard, and men waved hats and gold-topped sticks and cheered lustily, ladies stood up in dangerously swaying carriages, and the thunder of the drumming hoofs was almost drowned by the roaring of the crowd.

You can guess that the criminal classes were quickly employed: pickpockets were active as usual, scurrying like marauding rats among the excited, heedless throng. The horses swept into the final straight: the favourite was now out of contention, and it was clear that the second favourite,
Rattan
, was also going to finish way down in the pack.
Orlando
still held the lead but
Ionian
was at his shoulder, and two lengths behind them, moving up with a powerful late run, was the colt Lester Grenwood had recommended to me.

Running Rein,
trained at Malton in Yorkshire.

Two hundred yards to go and
Orlando’s
jockey was crouched low, his whip flailing metronomically;
Ionian
was fading and my throat was becoming hoarse as the unfancied
Running Rein
came edging inexorably to the shoulder of the straining leader. My financial salvation! If he came home I’d have a fistful of tin by the end of the day! For fifty yards they were neck and neck but
Orlando
was losing his rhythm, the Malton colt began to edge ahead and suddenly the crossing line was past, the race was all over, arms were raised, hats thrown wildly into the air, and
pink-faced
ladies sank back in their carriages, fanning themselves rapidly. As the last in the field cantered in disconsolately men and women were already turning away, back to the jugglers, the drink tents, the pies and the entertainment. Winners were seeking out the wooden signs and soapboxes where bookmakers had cried the odds. Champagne was uncorked – there was the odd shout of “Gone away!” as infuriated punters discovered a bookmaker had decamped into the crowd – and I made my triumphant way towards the leaden-roofed Grand Stand.

For the moment, once I was back in the City and got to see my bookmaker, I would be able to pay the moneylender, satisfy my other creditors and my financial problems would be eased.

I bypassed the first floor refreshment room and the police court where two magistrates were dealing out summary justice to the thimble-riggers and pickpockets the police officers had
managed to collar. I made my way to the Jockey Club, where I knew I’d find Lester Grenwood: I had it in mind to toast him with a glass of fizz for his assistance.

The room was packed when I entered and there was a buzz of excited conversation in the throng: Ernest Wood, the Epsom corn merchant who owned
Running Rein
was there, surrounded by members clapping his back, seizing his hand to offer
congratulations
. I watched him as he stood there in his brown coat with gilt buttons, red-faced, perspiring with happiness, accepting the plaudits of the members. In a little while, after he had enjoyed the congratulatory comments he began to make his portly way down the steps into the luncheon room. It was at this point, as the crowd thinned, that I caught sight of Lester Grenwood. I waved, he responded and I made my way towards him. He was beaming, his lean, handsome features alight with pleasure.

Lester was always the dandy. On this occasion he was wearing a coat with a black velvet collar, yellow waistcoat and white cravat in which was tastefully displayed a diamond pin. When I came up to his side he waved his champagne glass, his broad grin extended, white teeth flashing under his muttonchop whiskers. He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Didn’t I tell you the nag was a cert? Wood’s owned that colt for three months only,’ he enthused. ‘He’s made the bargain of his life!’

‘A happy man,’ I agreed, glancing across the room to the owner of the losing horse. ‘Like you and me. Unlike Colonel Peel, I’d wager.’

The colonel, you should know, was brother to the Prime Minister. He was a cold fish: tall, angular-featured, pale, haughty of eye and always soberly dressed. At this moment he was displaying his unhappiness in the iciness of his glance. He’d entered two well-fancied horses in the Derby,
Orlando
and
Ionian
, but he had failed to gain the prize he had lusted for. Both nags had lost out in the final furlongs to the outsider backed by Grenwood and myself. Colonel Peel was clearly not enjoying the
glass of champagne he held in his left hand, as others gathered around him in commiseration: that inveterate gossip Charles Greville was in the group, along with Lord George Bentinck, and other members of the Jockey Club committee.

‘Hullo,’ I heard Lester Grenwood murmur as I swilled my celebratory champagne. ‘Something’s up!’

The Chief Steward at Epsom in those days was Baron le Tissier. The baron was a thick-necked, stocky man in his late fifties. I followed the direction of Grenwood’s gesture and saw le Tissier shouldering his way across the room towards Colonel Peel. Lord George Bentinck met him and engaged him in lively conversation. In moments some kind of argument seemed to be developing, as they circled each other like snapping,
disputatious
mongrels. Le Tissier was shaking his heavy head in violent disagreement, and his jowl had reddened; Lord George was wagging his finger aggressively, and standing at the edge of the dispute Colonel Peel had raised his narrow, finely chiselled nose and was scowling about him in a patrician manner.

It was quite the wrong moment for Ernest Wood to swagger forward to present his compliments and indulge in a little peacock preening. But then he was only a provincial corn merchant and I suppose knew no better. Greville saw him coming and muttered something to his companions, Lord George Bentinck shot a cold, hostile glance towards the
puffed-up
, swaggering, triumphant merchant and, as Wood reached the group, Bentinck pointedly turned his back, stepped aside.

I made my excuses and left Lester Grenwood to edge forward on the trail of the corn merchant. I was impelled by curiosity, of course, but there was something else: a nervous coldness in my stomach, a forewarning of trouble. I always had an instinct about such things. I could always sniff out trouble. Not that I often acted upon such instincts, I must admit.

As Bentinck moved away, stiff-backed and stiff-legged, the group broke up, with Greville, then le Tissier and the others
following him, leaving Wood to converse with Colonel Peel alone. Wood glanced after the retreating men and frowned: it was common gossip at Brooks’s that Bentinck had wagered a large sum on
Orlando
, but Bentinck – the self-proclaimed ‘dictator of the Turf’ – was not normally noted for being a bad loser. And he was a rich man who could afford to pay up if he had backed a loser. Unlike me. With growing anxiety, I edged even closer as the corn merchant turned towards the owner of
Orlando
.

Colonel Peel’s lidded eyes were cold, grey and expressionless. He was a taciturn, stiff-backed, lean sort of fellow at the best of times, normally controlled in his manner but known for
occasional
short-tempered outbursts in the House of Commons. Now his mouth was set in a grim line and he seemed to be holding back a simmering rage.