Dead Ringer (10 page)

I sat there stunned. Cockburn’s own mouth dropped open. Beaming at his own malicious triumph Baron Alderson rose and swept from the room. Behind him he left a scene of complete disorder.

Y
OU WON’T HAVE
known my grandfather, naturally. He was long since dead, before I even met your mother in New York, after the collapse of my first marriage.

My maternal grandfather. Harvey Christian Combe. An eminent man in the City, a member of Common Council, a well known personality in his day. Like his political friend Charles James Fox, he had been a great gambler. He’d made his living as a brewer and accumulated a large fortune. I think it was the prospect of succeeding to the old man’s wealth that had led my father to marry my mother: I can’t think of any other reason that might have persuaded him.

But marry her he did, and it stood to reason that when I was born I became a favourite of the old man. His daughter looked like him; I looked like my mother. We could all three have been pugilists. It was natural he would lean towards me: his
look-alike
.

So before we reconvened at the Exchequer Court on Monday it was only sensible that I spent the weekend down at Combe Park, hoping to tap the old man – again – for some financial assistance. But he’d heard rumours about my reckless gambling and was getting niggardly about the support he was called for. He gave me a lecture instead – as though I didn’t get enough of those from my father.

I wouldn’t have minded so much if my grandfather hadn’t
been so well-known as a whist player, and had bet with the most extravagant in society, in his younger days.

However, my Sunday morning visit was unsuccessful and I came away empty-handed. So you’ll understand that I was more or less
forced
to go along to Hampstead Heath that Sunday
afternoon
, to see if I could make up for my dire financial state by placing a few perspicacious bets.

The occasion was a battle between two of the better-known fist men of the day … all but forgotten now, of course. One was a rather portly gentleman by the name of Porky Clark. Unsurprisingly, he’d once been a butcher. His opponent was Sam Martin, an ex-porter from Hythe who was suspected of eating raw meat before a fight to get used to the taste of blood – usually his own. His speciality was taking a beating for twenty rounds before nailing his opponent when the man got tired of the sport of hammering seven bells out of him.

In those days, what, forty years ago, pugilism depended very largely on aristocratic support, you understand. Prize fights were arranged by noble patrons who raised funds for the stakes and supported favourite boxers during training. Lord George Bentinck, naturally enough, was a member of the Pugilists Club that had been set up in 1814. The club established codes of conduct, hired gangs to keep order at the ropes and tried to keep purses modest, though the sums were bolstered by side stakes. It was where I was hoping to pick up some cash: supplementary stakes were arranged by the Fancy at the Castle Tavern and it was towards that establishment that I first directed my steps after leaving my grandfather: I placed a wager with the little available money I had among the usual company of aristocrats who were there rubbing shoulders with tradesmen, peers and pickpockets. I didn’t see Lord George there: nor did I have any wish to see him. But I was pretty sure he’d be at the Heath.

There was quite a crowd there, of course: Sunday afternoons on the Heath were a fixture during the summer months for the
pugilistic fraternity. The police knew all about it of course and were supposed to intervene in the illegal pursuit, but the crowds were too big for their interference: they stayed on a little knoll some distance off, waiting for the inevitable riot that would accompany the almost guaranteed disputatious verdict.

Proceedings had already commenced within the ring when I arrived and I was gladly surprised to see that one of the two men sparring was none other than my acquaintance Lester Grenwood … who still owed me money against that accursed bill. Amateurs such as he often put on a show before the main event of the afternoon and Grenwood fancied himself with his fists but I knew him well enough to be aware that once his nose got bloodied, he’d retire. In the hope of grabbing a little quick return I placed a quick bet on his opponent, but got it wrong again. Within the first few minutes, after a bit of wary circling, Grenwood landed a quick one-two, struck a blow in his
opponent’s
kidneys and ended up with a fierce knee in the groin which brought water to everyone’s eyes. No Queensberry nonsense in these amateur bouts those days, you know.

The crowd howled loudly – though not as loud as Lester’s opponent writhing on the ground and clutching at his precious jewels. It was clear the fight was over. I was still making a hasty agreement with my creditor by way of a piece of paper, when Lester Grenwood came through the throng with a towel around his neck and a broad smile on his face. He had his arm around the shoulders of his Hussar friend Crosier Hilliard. As he was wiping the sweat from his handsome features with the scruffy-looking towel he caught sight of me. He raised a triumphant hand.

‘James! How about that, then! Did you see that right of mine? And that trick with the knee?’

Crosier Hilliard whooped. ‘Hope you had your money on the right man, James!’

‘If not the right horse,’ Grenwood shouted gleefully. ‘See you got nailed in court too, the other day, in the
Running Rein
business
,’
he crowed. ‘The papers are full of it! Produce the nag, hey? Does Alderson really expect that to happen? Draggin’ a horse into the courtroom? It’s got all London by the heels!’

Slightly annoyed, as well as to some extent gratified, I
countered
, ‘And how’s that little dollymop of yours? She got
you
by the heels yet?’

He was too delighted with his pugilistic success to be offended. ‘Sweet Harriet, you mean? She’ll have long since gone back to her countryside pursuits. Talking of which, James, Hilliard and I have got a little party going on tonight down at Swanscombe and if you want to join in, stop being such a dull dog and—’

‘I’ve got the hearing Monday morning,’ I cut in, shaking my head dolefully. ‘Got preparations to undertake. But talking of
Running Rein
, what with the sum you owe me and those bets you laid off for me—’

‘Ha, don’t worry old friend. Keep fleet of foot and they won’t catch up with you for a week or so. Besides, the tin you’ll get from this
Running Rein
brief of yours should keep them wolves from the door, hey?’ He hugged Hilliard, and pulled at the man’s whiskers. ‘Away then, Crosier, let’s to the fleshpots!’

I put out a hand to detain him but, flushed in the face, he was being dragged away by Hilliard in the midst of a congratulatory group of successful punters, eager to express their appreciation and admiration for him in a local tavern. Disgruntled, I made my way around the fringe of the restless crowd, waiting for the main event of the afternoon. I could see Porky Clark limbering up chewing on a half-cooked steak and glugging a bottle of beer, all white, hairy, scarred flesh and chunky jowls. His opponent Sam Martin was across the other side of the rope barrier, stripping off: he was taller, almost ten years younger than Porky, carried less fat, and had the scarred, bristle-featured look of a man who intended bloody business. Porky was going to be no match for him that day.

I watched the two men as they completed their preparations and then undertook another judicious bet, on credit, of course. And received some more wigging from various acquaintances on the
Running Rein
business. After which I edged my way into the crowd, shouldered my way close to the ropes, to see how Porky shaped up to Sam Martin.

You know, I always regarded myself as an acknowledged expert on horseflesh, bare-knuckle fighters, and women. Mind you, I don’t know that I ever made any money on a pugilistic encounter. Not even when I was acting as manager of John C. Heenan, when he was champion of the world. You didn’t know about that stage in my career? I’ll get around to telling you about it, in due time. But Heenan, I
should
have made some tin out of him, particularly when I came back from New York with him in tow, fixed him the challenge fight of the century with Tom Sayers in Ireland, only for Heenan to pull out at the last moment. To get
married
, by all that’s holy!. But then, to be fair, what a woman! It’s Adah Mencken I’m talking about. The sensation of the New York and European stage. … Now I lost money on her too: she had cost me the security of my first marriage … but I’m digressing again. I’ll tell you about that later.

To put it shortly, you need to know that it was age, if not beauty, that did for Sam Martin that day on Hampstead Heath. At least, that’s what the sporting press said next day. The fact is Sam Martin didn’t seem up to his usual cunning tactics: he took the blows but he seemed slow, sluggish, not as aggressive as he was reputed to be. There looked to be no weight in his slugging hand; his legs seemed rubbery from the start and there was a vacant glare in his eyes that made it seem as though he was somewhere else than the Heath. And there was no sign of the usual comeback when the fight was far advanced. Anyway, in the eighteenth round, as the blood was spattering the bawling mob around the ropes Porky Clark laid one on him, high on the temple, and poor Sam went down and according to some
accounts I read later in the sporting press didn’t wake for a week. He never did regain control of his speech after that, now I come to think of it. Not that he ever had anything particularly interesting to say.

It wasn’t a good day for Sam Martin, but it was worse for me – first my grandfather hadn’t come through with anything other than a homily, I’d lost some ready by betting against Lester Grenwood, and now Porky Clark had done for me with his right fist.

It was time for me to make myself scarce. The disaffected crowd was breaking up into a few isolated battles as they disputed the legitimacy of the verdict … even though Sam Martin was still stretched unconscious on the muddied sward, but I avoided them easily enough. I pushed and barged my way through the sweating supporters, avoiding the eyes of the
bookmakers
I dealt with, and saw the peelers beginning to come down from their hill to separate some of the more violent
squabbles
. There were a few hansom cabs waiting on the road that fringed the Heath and I headed for them. Before I reached them however, I noted there was some kind of celebration going on near the bushes adjoining the highway, just behind the line of cabs. A couple of hats were knocked off, thrown in the air, and there was a degree of shouting. The unusual thing was that no great crowd had gathered, just a small group of the swell mob.

I thought I caught a glimpse of none other than Lewis Goodman among them before I turned aside, began to fight my way past a noisy group heading for the nearest tavern. It was then that I observed one man who stood watching the
celebrating
group, his back to me: there was something rural about him, a stocky, broad-shouldered fellow with a mass of red hair and muddy boots. His hands were on his hips, but his fists were clenched, and his head was lowered like a threatening bull. I glanced at him curiously. He was clearly in an angry, dangerous mood; he stared after the small group of whooping revellers,
then slowly walked after them. His gait was stiff-legged: he reminded me just then of a belligerent fight dog, a bull mastiff entering the ring.

But it was none of my business. At least, I thought so at the time.

I reached the cabs, negotiated a price, and by supper time I was back in town. Still almost penniless.

I met my leading counsel, Alexander Cockburn, during
breakfast
at the Inn on the Monday morning. Like me he had spent a thoughtful weekend. Since his early struggles on the West Country circuit Cockburn had become much sought after by London solicitors and the briefs that were brought to his
chambers
were numerous. He could afford to pick and choose but it was clear to me from his demeanour over our kidneys and steak that during the weekend he had thought deeply about
Wood v Peel
and he was beginning to consider that he had chosen badly with the
Running Rein
case. It was always likely to be a
cause célèbre
, and I’ve no doubt that had attracted him for Cockburn enjoyed the limelight and was a sporting man by inclination. But he clearly felt we might be on dangerous ground: somehow the thing was all unbalanced.

‘I spoke to Baron Alderson at dinner, at the Inn last night,’ he growled unhappily, as he ladled some more kidneys onto his plate. ‘He has a clear disposition towards the other side. He considers it unwise of us to rely so heavily upon evidence from a man like Lewis Goodman: his name is a byword in racing circles and there’s every chance that the gullible Mr Wood was taken in by him.’

‘Mr Wood’s not the one on trial.’

He eyed me sourly, his narrow little eyes red-rimmed with displeasure. ‘Perhaps not, but I suppose you’ve heard the latest news from Bulstrode?’

I shook my head. ‘I haven’t seen him and—’

Cockburn’s mouth twisted unpleasantly. ‘He tells me that not only Bartle has gone missing. It seems the damned animal has also disappeared!’

I was thunderstruck. ‘What! But Baron Alderson—’

‘The judge wants to see the horse, and now we can’t produce the animal.’ He paused, took a mouthful of kidney, chewed it in distaste and eyed me coldly. ‘I trust you have properly loaded our barrels,’ Cockburn observed, as though it were all my fault.

I could see what was about to happen: he would be handing the problems to me. A witness had gone missing. Now the horse was not to be found. And the judge had already been nobbled by the other side.

It was with a heavy heart that I followed him as we made our way on foot from the Inner Temple to the Exchequer Court.

I’ve already emphasized that in those days courtrooms were regarded as places of entertainment. And
Wood v Peel
was turning into high theatre. There was the usual crowd milling about outside, and the shaggy-faced, blue-coated Cerberus on the doors greeted us warmly, happy that the sensationalism of the case and the rumbustious press reports had enabled him to raise entry prices to the benefit of his pocket. Then, as we entered, close to nine o’clock, Cockburn, already in a
cantankerous
mood, went as red as a rooster in season: Lord George Bentinck had seated himself between the Solicitor General and junior counsel.