Dead Ringer (12 page)

I followed his portly, affable figure way across the busy hall, up the steps and past the portraits of eminent Benchers of the past, to the discreet, little used library. Little used by me, anyway. Like most barristers I had never been much for reading, particularly of law books. You get to learn the law by practice, not book-reading … and besides you could always get some other poor soul to devil for you, get the case up so you could use your own personal oratorical gifts, make an effective
presentation
in court. That was one of the tasks I delegated to Villiers.

So there we were, Wilkins and I, together among the shelves of musty, leather-bound, rarely consulted books. Wilkins eyed the dusty bindings with displeasure and confirmed my own experience. ‘Always say it’s better not to get bogged down with law. Appeal to the emotions; wring the old heartstrings. Get to the twelve good men and true. It’s why I always drink a pot of stout at midday.’

‘What?’

‘A pot of stout. Nothing like it to fuddle the brain. That then brings me down to the intellectual standard of the average British jury. Not to mention the judge.’ He winked, expansively. ‘But you know all about that, hey? You’re already being
reckoned
to be a capital man with a jury.’ He eyed me, carefully. ‘But not over
Running Rein
, hey?’

‘The issue never reached them,’ I muttered. ‘If only—’

‘Yes …
Running Rein
… and the attitude of the Benchers.’ Wilkins twitched at his whiskers thoughtfully. ‘I understand there’s a degree of … dissatisfaction about your performance. The attack on Lord George Bentinck was deemed in certain quarters to have been extravagant. They’ve been considering hauling you up before them.’

‘Cockburn—’

‘Has gone sailing. They won’t touch the jumped up little bastard. Too big these days. Heading for honours. But a junior like yourself, well, they like the taste of fresh meat in their jaws occasionally. Just to lay down some markers for other juniors.’

I was bitter and angry. ‘My attack on Bentinck was justified. There are stories about him; there’s evidence that demonstrates what a humbug, what a hypocrite he is—’

‘That’s as may be, James, but he’s a powerful man, with powerful friends. However, no matter. I put a word in with the Benchers. After the Cider Cellars the other night, well, a man knows who his friends are, hey? But be certain, my boy. The Benchers are gunning for you. Be careful, James. Tread a more cautious line.’ He grinned suddenly, linked his arm in mine. ‘There, that’s done. Duty completed. So, what do you say to a grog? The
Café Chantant
suit you, my boy?’

It suited me.

So, in spite of the attacks on me by the yellow press and the muttering behind closed doors of the Benchers, the reality was that my practice suddenly began to look more promising. The number of briefs that came to me increased. Solicitors had seen enough of me at the Exchequer Court to become interested: clients like a bulldog who snarls and snaps in court, you know. They feel they’re getting value for their money, even if they lose. But even so, I wasn’t happy. I felt ill-used. Cockburn had pushed me into the firing line and ducked his head behind the parapet.
Bentinck and the Jockey Club were smugly pleased. The Benchers were watching. I was smarting.

I met Ben Gully at The Blue Posts to discuss the whole thing. He confirmed what I was feeling.

‘You need to tread careful, Mr James. Lord George didn’t like the way you handled him: he’s arrogant, and touchy, and he makes a bad enemy. And he’s got the Jockey Club behind him.’

‘I’m taking a beating in the newspapers, Ben,’ I replied sullenly, ‘and I don’t like it.’ I contemplated my brandy and water. ‘So, what exactly do you think happened to
Running Rein
?’

Ben Gully’s errant eye wandered thoughtfully. He shook his scarred head. ‘I don’t know, Mr James. He’s been hidden
somewhere
, I don’t doubt, safe enough in some up-country stable. Valuable piece of horseflesh, you see. But the whole thing was sleight of hand. It was like the thimble-riggers and the sharps and bonnets you see at the race course – tricksters all. First you see it, then you don’t.’ He sniffed. ‘We had a witness, name of Bartle. He didn’t turn up. We had a horse. It got spirited away. You never stood a chance, Mr James, not when the cards were really down on the table.’

My gut growled irritably. ‘Do you think Bentinck was involved? In spiriting away the horse, I mean? If so, what did he have to gain by hiding the horse?’

Ben Gully sniffed again and traced a stubby finger on some grog that had spilled on the table in front of us. ‘He’d shouted long enough about a ringer in the Derby. But he could have been wrong. You can never tell in the courtroom, can you? If the judge had held
Running Rein
was what his owner claimed he was … Bentinck wouldn’t have liked losing face.’

I eyed Ben Gully carefully. He’d still not given me his own opinion. ‘Do you think
Running Rein
was a two-year-old colt?’

Gully shrugged. ‘Mr Wood was pretty sure of it.’

I didn’t like the evasion. ‘The way things are, Ben, nothing’s
been proved: Goodman can stick to his story, Mr Wood has lost a deal of tin – and I feel I’ve been led by the nose.’

Gully was silent for a little while. He took a pull at his porter, then said, ‘Look upon it as experience, Mr James.’ Then, seeing the expression on my face, he added, ‘If you intend following up the matter, Mr James, best leave Bentinck alone.’

‘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.

‘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 instructions 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!’