Dead Ringer (13 page)

Bulstrode’s eyes grew round. He accepted the refilled glass. ‘I have to agree that the prospect is—’

‘Exciting! Yes, I knew you’d see it my way!’ My tone was confident. I waited as he drained his glass with an enthusiastic flourish then leant over and once more filled the glass to the brim. It was an investment. ‘I can get Ben Gully on it right away. It’ll need a small advance of course, say five hundred pounds, but I’m sure he’ll be able to get us the information we need.’

‘Five… five hundred pounds.’ Bulstrode paled a little and his hand shook as he lifted his sherry glass for the fifth time. ‘But if we don’t have a principal who will pay us …’

‘Come, come, Bulstrode, you’re a man of means! I’ll put some of my own money into it, of course, but I’m sure you can find five hundred for a private investigation of the circumstances surrounding
Wood v Peel
! We’re seekers after truth and justice, after all. And think of the glory afterwards, when we prove what’s to prove. Consider the publicity! It will be the talk of the City! Bulstrode and James … what a combination, hey? Irresistible!’

The images burned in his mind. I could see the pride in his eyes as Bulstrode beamed his pleasure and he waved his glass happily. But, as he drank, a little doubt crept back, and the doubts returned. He wrinkled his nose, picked at his lip with an
uncertain
finger, and eyed me a little uneasily. He sighed. ‘It’s not an easy matter, Mr James. The prospect is extremely attractive of course … and you’re absolutely right.’ He hiccupped loudly, and put an apologetic hand to his mouth. ‘We should … we should regard this perhaps as a matter of public duty. But though I cannot dispute I am other than a man of some means, I’ve already expended a considerable amount of money on this case … sums which I could not in all conscience call upon Mr Wood to furnish … and I’m not at all sure that a further advance….’

His voice died away miserably. I allowed the silence to grow around us, embarrassingly. It requires patience to land a
struggling
fish. At last, I shrugged and in a careless tone, I said, ‘Well, it don’t signify. If you think the matter of insufficient
importance
….’

Bulstrode wriggled unhappily at the hint of contempt in my voice. ‘I didn’t say….’

‘No matter. The villains will get away with it, but that’s the way of the world.’ I paused, eyeing the ceiling. ‘So, you’re up here in London for a few days, then, Bulstrode?’

‘That’s right, Mr James,’ the solicitor replied, eager to get away from the painful subject of a further advance. ‘I’ve just deposited another brief for you with Mr Villiers. It’s not going to be a
cause célèbre
of course, but it involves the second son of Lord Cantelupe, and a certain actress who is bringing a charge against him for breach of promise. There are some compromising letters—’

‘Oh, I’m sure we can do something for the second son of Lord Cantelupe,’ I interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. ‘However, I take it you’ll be staying in London overnight, of course.’

Bulstrode nodded eagerly. ‘For a few days in fact. I have
lodgings
at….’

‘I was recently elected a member of the Devonshire Club. Sponsored by Lord Clanricarde, as a matter of fact. I shall be dining there later tonight and if you don’t happen to have an engagement this evening perhaps you’d care to join me there, as my guest for dinner.’

Bulstrode beamed. ‘Mr James, I—’

‘Count d’Orsay often puts in an appearance at the club,’ I remarked casually. ‘And the Earl of Chesterfield is a member, as is Lord Lytton. It’s quite a good table, too. Sometimes there’s whist afterwards. Or roly poly. On the other hand, perhaps it would be more to your taste after dinner to step out into the Haymarket….’

‘Mr James,’ Bulstrode positively glowed, ‘I’d be honoured to accept your invitation!’

The line had been paid out, the hook swallowed. The fish was almost netted.

In those days, during the daylight hours the Strand and the Haymarket were quiet enough, with occasional newsboys plying their wares, men strolling to or from their offices, carts and carriages rattling along to the West End. But as you might be aware, my boy, when dusk fell the character of the area changed. The night houses opened their doors in the Strand, the Haymarket, Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. Brightly dressed whores emerged from Catherine Street to parade in their finery under the gas lamps near the theatres, and the gin palaces, hotels, French restaurants, and oyster shops lit up the area, did a roaring trade while the coffee houses who had kept blinds drawn all day now gleamed their windows onto the street. The scene was all very familiar to me: Windmill Street crowded with flash men and fast women, cabs and carriages jostling along the cobbles to deposit young men out for an evening’s
entertainment
, old hags selling fruit and flowers, dollymops arm in arm, giggling as they eyed up the young bucks with their curling whiskers. As the theatres emptied towards midnight the dancing saloons became crowded and the supper lounges were filled with bullies and whores, pickpockets and thieves, fools and rogues. At midnight they all came spilling out of the Argyll Rooms calling for broughams, or hansom cabs, or staggering on to a one of the numerous night houses: the army, navy, the universities, the Inns of Court, the City and the Stock Exchange all were well represented.

I was well aware that for a gentleman like Bulstrode, up from the country, it could be a dazzling, exciting scene: sherry cobblers and cigars in a Haymarket coffee house, a roaring chorus in the
Café Chantant
, comic songs in the Cave of Harmony, and the Judge and Jury Society in the Garrick’s Head, under the lead of ‘Chief Baron’ Renton Nicholson.

‘You’ll enjoy this,’ I assured Bulstrode as I paid the shilling to enter and manoeuvred the inebriated solicitor into a seat at the back of the crowded room. The fee included a glass of grog and a cigar and I was certain it would be money well spent. I pointed out to Bulstrode the notorious Renton Nicholson. A burly,
coarse-looking
individual with a red face and leering style, he sat at a raised desk railed off and facing a table set for ‘counsel’ and a makeshift jury box. He was dressed in tattered court robes with a wig worn askew and an eyeglass screwed into his left eye. ‘Counsel’ had been made up to resemble noted advocates and they gave exaggerated imitations of peculiar mannerisms and oratorical flights. One of them, I noted sourly, was wearing white gloves. They were already well launched into tonight’s parody of a recent criminal conversation case with which most of the
audience
were familiar and Nicholson and his supporting ‘counsel’ were drawing from the participants as much by way of salacious comment, obscenity and
double entendres
as was possible.

When we had finished our grog, I called for gin and water, and Bulstrode sat gaping as the ‘Chief Baron’ demanded further evidence of the witnesses as to what they had observed of the adulterous relationship in question.

‘So you applied your eye to the hole?’

‘Not only my eye, m’lud!’

‘And what did you see?’

‘More’n I ever did see before, m’lud … or
behind
!’

The drunken audience hooted with raucous laughter and Bulstrode reached for his gin. Sherry, wine at dinner, and now grog and gin had worked their spell. He raised the glass to his mouth shakily, spilling some of it over the gilt buttons of his waistcoat, and gaped at me owlishly. ‘Shplendid evening, shplendid!’ Then the glass dropped, and shattered on the floor. Bulstrode glared at it as though it had committed some
unpar-donable
offence and then blinked, slowly closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. It had been a long and exciting day and
the alcohol was finally getting to him. His blubbery lips pursed, a small bubble emerged and popped silently and a little sigh of satisfaction escaped him. He would remember little of the Judge and Jury Society.

‘Strange company you keep, James!’

I glanced up: Lieutenant Edward Crosier Hilliard, with yet another dollymop. He was drunk, his mouth loose, his eyes vacant. ‘May I sit down? Legs a bit tottery, don’t you know.’ He gave the bold-eyed girl he was with a shove. ‘You can push off now; I found a friend.’

She began to protest but saw the danger in his eye, and after a moment flounced away. I glared distastefully at the hussar officer. The company was little to my liking, but Hilliard was drunk and it was easier to humour him.

‘Who’s your friend?’ Hilliard mumbled, staring at Bulstrode.

‘A professional acquaintance.’

‘Up from the country, I see,’ Crosier Hilliard said, looking him over and sneering at the cut of his coat, and the gilt-buttoned waistcoat. ‘Can always tell, you know. They have a smell about them. What’s his line? Cattle? Pigs?’

‘He’s a solicitor,’I replied in a cool tone.

‘Same thing, begod!’ Hilliard guffawed. He repeated the comment, finding it hilarious, and then jerked his head about, beckoned to the waiter, thumped on the table, calling for gin. He turned back to me, grinning wolfishly. ‘See that dollymop I was with? Had her last week. But couldn’t be bothered tonight. Stale meat, you know, James. You seen Grenwood lately?’

Hilliard’s whiskers were stained with nicotine and his dress coat was marked at the lapels with spilled wine. I stared at him with contempt. While freely plying the Exeter solicitor I had kept my own drinking under control this evening, aware I would have to get Bulstrode back to his lodgings, and still with a task to perform. I shook his head. ‘Haven’t seen Grenwood since I came across the two of you at Hampstead Heath.’

‘Hah! The Porky Clark battle! Yes, of course. The fact is, Grenwood’s keeping close, you know. His old man … Lord Havermere … got him on a tight rein at the moment. Truth of the matter is,’ Hilliard leaned forward confidentially, ‘he’s in a bit of trouble … and he’s not alone!’ The hussar guffawed loudly, finding the comment incomprehensibly witty. ‘Staying close to home, trying to persuade the old skinflint to get him off the hook.’

‘What hook?’

‘Different with me, you see,’ Hilliard announced slyly. ‘Got expectations, don’t you know. Banker’s daughter from Sheffield. The delectable Miss Edge. So I’ll get out of it, you wait and see.’

‘Get out of what?’

‘That damned
Running Rein
affair,’ Hilliard belched.

I was intrigued suddenly. I glanced at Bulstrode, making sure the man was really asleep, head lowered on his chest. Confirmation came from the light snoring sound emanating from his open mouth. I turned back to Hilliard. ‘I picked up some rumours at the tables in Almack’s the other evening. Just what exactly is your involvement in that business?’

Hilliard winked and placed one finger along his nose. ‘Ahah! Not to be bruited abroad, if you know what I mean. But you’re a friend of Grenwood … he came to me with a proposal. Form a syndicate. Bets on two horses … good odds. Inside tip. And it all worked out, just as we’d been promised.’ He frowned, and clucked his tongue. ‘Except for that bastard Lord George Bentinck. Upturned the damned applecart, didn’t he? And Grenwood and I, we’d had a hell of a job, raising the necessary tin, but made it in the end … borrowed from a few people in the East End.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘Stay away from them, James, those damned moneylenders. They’ll have your boots and your teeth before they finish.’

They already had their hands on my damned boots, that was the problem. ‘But why is there a difficulty for you and
Grenwood? Weren’t the bets all called off after Colonel Peel defaulted?’

Hilliard shook his head fiercely. ‘No, it all worked perfeck … perfectly.
Running Rein
came in as we expected. And the other horse was shoved out of the race early, as we’d been told. These little jockeys … they can be cunning buggers, believe me.’

‘Yet you and Grenwood are in trouble. With the
moneylenders
?’

Hilliard stared at me, befuddled, a certain irritation appearing in his eyes. He tugged at his moustache. ‘Nothing I can’t deal with, James! But Grenwood … he’s in deeper than me, and it seems he can’t raise the tin.’

‘But with the defaulting….’

‘It wasn’t just that! The damn welshing by Colonel Peel came after we’d settled our bets. We got part of our winnings quickly enough, but only a fraction of the full amount before the storm broke and that damned man Bentinck started shouting the odds. So the money that was paid out, it was called back … too many people waiting to see what happened in court. Fact is, you see, the bets were spread pretty widely … lot of people involved. And after Bentinck put the word out, we found ourselves in trouble. With the wrong people, if you know what I mean. Both Grenwood and I, we soon used up what we’d received. And now, well, we’re told that unless we settle up there’ll be a visit from the heavy mob. So we’re left … Grenwood and I, that is … with bad debts, and owing a hell of a lot to the moneylenders.’ He grimaced. ‘And Grenwood’s been trying to recover the situation … but the tables’ve let him down too. His paper’s all over town, but they won’t see much of it back, I warrant. He’s having the most infernal bad luck. He even backed the wrong man in the Porky Clark–Sam Martin bout! Dammit, even I got
that
one right!’

Unlike me.

Hilliard nodded to himself and began to say something, then
stopped. He glanced around him furtively, and shook his head as though reminding himself to be wary. ‘We didn’t come back to Town together from the Heath, you know, though. I left early: appointment in Town.’ He leered. ‘I gather Goody Levy gave Grenwood a ride … and took him on to The Quadrant.’ Hilliard snickered. ‘I’m told that Grenwood lost a packet that night too.’

‘This syndicate you’ve been talking about,’ I said slowly, ‘who put you up to it? Where did the information about the race come from?’

Hilliard looked at me as though he thought me slow-witted. ‘Where else? Goody Levy, of course.’

A roar of laughter almost drowned him out as another obscene witticism from Renton Nicholson was received with raucous delight by the drunken gathering. My attention wandered for a moment.