Dead Ringer (17 page)

It takes one to recognize one, I thought. But aloud, I said, ‘I have no acquaintance with the man, outside that day in the courtroom.’

‘Is that so?’ Bentinck queried. Oddly enough he seemed surprised and was on the point of saying something more, but then hesitated, leaned back in his chair. He looked about him, raised a hand, gesturing to the aged waiter leaning against the far wall and ordered a brandy for himself. He offered me none. But he fixed me with a cold eye as he waited for his refreshment and said, ‘Well, I may tell you he has something of a history: thuggery, race-fixing, pugilistic frauds….’

‘But nothing
proved
, I understand.’

Bentinck glowered at my taunting tone. ‘And then there’s the matter of
Running Rein.
A bad business for everyone. But … as I said earlier, one must move on.’ His glance slipped away from me as he added, ‘I am of the firm view that the 1844 Derby is a book that should now be regarded as closed.’

‘You are not interested in what was the truth behind the affair?’ I taunted him.

He frowned, raised his chin. ‘We reached the truth in court! As
far as I’m concerned, the issues were finally dealt with in Exchequer. Moreover, Baron Alderson’s strictures were, shall we say, received unhappily in certain quarters. There is a view among many of my friends, men of consequence that these matters should now be laid to rest.’

‘
Buried
, you mean?’

I was surprised by his reaction. His eyebrows shot up
alarmingly
. ‘What do you mean by that?’ he demanded angrily. I shrugged carelessly, and his stubby fingers drummed on the arm of his chair. He was always a man of uncertain temper, unable to control his emotions. Now, irked by my tone, he fully withdrew the poniard from its sheath.

‘Look here, James, let’s say it plain. It’s my view, and that of the Jockey Club, that after Alderson’s strictures matters should be let rest. But it’s come to my attention that you are still involved in making certain enquiries….’

‘I can’t imagine where you might have heard that,’ I
interrupted
stiffly.

‘If my information is correct,’ he responded with a surge of anger, ‘you’re sticking your nose into matters that are no longer of any concern to you. I think you should be made aware that any further enquiries will not find favour in quarters that have influence. The plaintiff, Mr Wood, has agreed to let matters rest. Colonel Peel has come to a suitable accommodation with the corn merchant. That reprobate Levy Goodman can be left to look after himself. There’ll be another day for a reckoning there. But as for you … there is no further reason for you to involve
yourself
in this whole business. Let the sleeping dogs lie. No more stones to be turned over.’

‘Not even to discover the truth?’ I asked sarcastically.

Bentinck brushed the thought aside. ‘Let the matter end here, James,’ he demanded roughly. He paused as the waiter bowed in front of him, the brandy glass offered on the small tray. He took the glass, swirled and sniffed at it, waved the waiter away and
sipped carefully at the liquid. Over the rim of the glass he observed me with hot, angry eyes.

‘You have what might be a glittering career ahead of you, James. You could enjoy a fine career at the Bar. Entry into Society. The friendship of great men. Perhaps political preferment. So don’t be a damned fool. Don’t damage your prospects. By joining this club, you might well be able to gain the friendship of the Prime Minister’s brother, among others. But your proposed membership of the Carlton, that could be endangered if you persist in dragging up further matters connected with that damned horse….’

His meaning was quite clear to me. I knew all about the advantage of an inside track at the races, and I knew it was being pointed out to me that I could have an unhindered run as a member of the Carlton Club … if I behaved. But, perhaps foolishly, I felt resentful, and my dislike of this bully of a man stuck in my throat. I rose, bowed slightly. ‘Thank you for your advice, Lord George. I must now take your leave.’

Bentinck was enraged, hardly able to believe I was resisting him. His tone changed, threateningly. ‘Damn it, James, I want your assurance that you’ll leave this business well alone!’

‘That is something I cannot do,’ I retorted.

For Bentinck it was like a slap in the face. And leaving him sitting there, empurpling, well, perhaps it was ill-advised conduct on my part. I could have used more discretion, perhaps have even been accommodating. Bent with the prevailing wind. But I was unable to countenance further that man’s arrogance, and the underlying menace in his tone.

My intransigence in the matter, well, I knew that almost inevitably it would cost me membership of the club. And with loss of membership there would also be lost the opportunity to rub shoulders with government ministers, gain influence, reach for a seat in the Commons in the government interest … but it was not to be.

The result was predictable. The Earl of Wilton was as good as his word. He duly proposed me a few days later, his nephew seconded me, but a single blackball was sufficient to deny me entry to the Carlton Club.

I had no doubt whatsoever it was Lord George Bentinck’s blackball … or that of one of his minions from the Jockey Club.

The evening that I heard of my blackballing at the Carlton Club, fuming, I met Ben Gully and we had a further discussion about Joe Bartle’s watch. He had had difficulty rooting out the elusive receiver, Strauss, who was rumoured to have gone to Amsterdam on business. The conversation ended with my insisting that Ben continued to pursue his enquiries further among his acquaintances in the St Giles rookeries and along the Ratcliffe Highway. It meant letting him have some more of the money I had squeezed out of the Exeter solicitor Bulstrode, which was making me run short once again with debts piling up. But I was furious about Bentinck’s threats and behaviour; I was put on my mettle, and determined not to be thrust aside by such menaces.

Impetuosity, of course. I would have done better to heed Bentinck’s advice, however bitter the draught might have been to swallow.

However, a few good things seemed to have occurred as a result of the
Running Rein
case and the hullabaloo that surrounded it. While I had been abused and humiliated by Baron Alderson on the Bench my ranting in court had certainly persuaded certain solicitors who dealt with the seamier clients in town that I was a man after their own heart. As a consequence the trickle of briefs that began to arrive at my chambers was still growing … even if they were not of the most lucrative kind …
and I felt that at last I was obtaining the notice I deserved. And needed.

Moreover,
The Times
was taking an interest. In those days ‘The Thunderer’ used to devote two or three of its pages exclusively to law reports in which the correspondents spared no detail. It led to the Bishop of London spouting from his pulpit that the
newspaper
had become the ‘only authorised unmoral publication’ of the day. Be that as it may, the details published included
flippancies
the barristers and judges used to while away the tedium of the courtroom and one such comment I made obtained some prominence. That particular week I’d been briefed to act in another horse case where I’d described the animal as ‘running faster at the nose than on the track’, a turn of phrase that pleased the yellow press. I was also briefed to appear for the Quaker travel firm Thomas Cook Limited in a libel suit. It had been claimed that they had used one of their vans to transport corpses to the crematorium for the London Necropolis Company. Mr Justice Maule was on the bench: he passed the opinion that he could see no libel in the claim. I spoke up quickly: ‘True or not, my lord, I consider it be a very
grave
charge!’

The judge chuckled, then laughed outright at my quick pun; the well of the court responded, and a roar of laughter spread throughout the room. It was reported in The
Times
next day, and made an appearance in
Punch
, after which my reputation was made, if not as a black-letter lawyer, at least as a man of ready wit.

I see you grimace, my boy; the fact is, audiences were more easily pleased forty years ago.

However, while I was pursuing my practice in the courts, yet still brooding over the injustice of Baron Alderson’s strictures, Cockburn’s betrayal, and the threats of that rogue Lord George Bentinck, Ben Gully was busy burrowing into the rookeries, talking to people, following up suggested leads, and spending my money. Well, Bulstrode’s anyway.

But Ben was always an honest man, after his lights. He left a note at my chambers on the Friday evening. He had traced Strauss at last. An assignation had been arranged.

I hate rats.

It’s an incontinent, unreasoning hatred. Even though I
recognize
that fact, the rustle of their scurrying steps, the sound of their panicked squeaking, the general evil appearance of their little red eyes and predatory teeth have always made me shudder and break out into a cold sweat. So it was with a degree of trepidation that I fought my way along the street that Friday evening, thrusting my way through the chaos of peripatetic placard men, pedestrians with wheelbarrows or perambulators, small traders with donkey carts, cows being milked by maids outside houses, streams of animals, private carriages and omnibuses all inconvenienced by the gas and water companies repairing mains and the slum clearances that had commenced with a view to connecting the new railway to Whitehall.

The thing was, Gully had asked me to meet him in Bunhill Row, near Moorgate, for a certain sporting occasion.

Blood sports have always been popular in the metropolis but had been banned some nine years earlier: bullock-running,
bull-baiting
and bear-baiting, or throwing sticks at tethered cocks for fun were activities no longer to be seen in public places. But in the poorer parts of London, if you knew your way around, you could still watch specially-bred dogs fighting each other for the delectation of the Fancy … or you could watch dogs fighting rats, if you knew where to look.

Ben Gully knew where to look.

A good ratting dog could fetch a high price in those days, you know. And rat-catchers could make a good living. One publican I acted for in court was reputed to buy over 25,000 live rats a year, at threepence each, mainly from the country about Enfield. His consequent sporting occasions drew the attention of titled
ladies and noble lords, he claimed, and I believed him … without attempting, or even desiring to attend one of his
entertainments
myself.

But that’s where Gully was taking me that evening. A short cab ride together and I found myself following him into a
two-roomed
house in a dilapidated part of Bunhill Row. Gully had informed me it was used by a notorious dog-trainer who kept a dog pit in the house. At the front entrance a battered-featured thug tapping a thick cudgel meaningfully against his gnarled hand took the entry fee that Ben provided and we were allowed entry through to the back of the verminous, odorous house. Ben gestured upward: the pit was located on the first floor. There was no staircase: the upper floor was reached by way of a rickety wooden ladder that gave access to a ceiling trapdoor.

We clambered upward, Gully leading the way. The hot fug and stench as we entered the crowded room made me gag but it seemed to disturb in no way the cluster of men and women who had gathered around the pit. The noise was incredible. The inhabitants of the room were waving their arms, enthusiastically shouting out wagers, stamping on the wooden boards, screaming and yelling encouragement mixed with curses at the animals. The stench was inevitable because all the windows on the upper floor had been boarded up and light was provided by smoky, flaring gas jets which gave the room a shadowy, dancing, eerie appearance. The pit itself was in the form of a small circus constructed of wooden palings, some six feet in diameter. Its timbered floor was stained with blood and excrement. In one corner was a cage teeming with frantic, squealing, excited rats. I caught a glimpse of their likely replacements in sacks bulging with terrified movement, gripped tightly in the huge fists of men with rough clothing, scarred faces, heavy shoulders and
merciless
eyes.

It was a scene from hell, but in spite of my aversion I could not drag my shivering gaze from the activity in the pit.

As far as I could calculate, some dozen rats had been let loose and set running in the pit against an untrained dog. Quick,
efficient
kills could set a high price on a ratter but this animal was not doing well, and no bids for the dog were being launched as it scurried around the pit, snapping a back here, a neck there, but failing dismally to deal with the squealing mass of rats as they sought cover in different parts of the circus, crouching against the boards, baring savage teeth, rushing away as the dog
tentatively
approached them.

The patience of the crowd was quickly exhausted. There was a chorus of disapproving cat-calls until the reluctant owner of the dog reached down into the pit, grabbed the animal by the scruff of its neck and hauled it out, swearing fiercely as he did so. My guess was that it would not have a long life ahead of it. There was a shuffling of feet, a rising jabber of conversation and I looked about me: men in rough jackets and caps, women in shabby dresses, a small group of clearly wealthy patrons of the sport in their rolled collar coats, top hats and cloaks. None seemed to be observing the ring now, as dead rats were scooped up with a broad-bladed shovel; rather, money was changing hands, bets being scribbled on scraps of paper, and then the cage was being refilled with a sack of scrabbling, snapping, squealing vermin.

I was sweating profusely, my throat was thick with panic, and yet I confess to being fascinated, unable to move as the next entertainment commenced.

The bull terrier now thrown into the pit was clearly well known. His left ear hung loosely, half torn away from a previous battle; he walked with a peculiar gait, perhaps occasioned by the bloodied flank on his left side, perhaps by the loss of one eye, the socket now merely a mass of solid scar tissue. There was blood, half-dried on his muzzle. Anticipatory saliva dripped from his jaws. He was an ugly, unprepossessing sight, but the crowd loved him.