Dead Ringer (3 page)

Charlie and I were good companions in those days. He died of drink, some years ago, while I was still struggling to make a new career for myself in New York, as a lawyer and a newspaperman. I regretted his passing. But there you are … I hear he had a proper send off, in one of Mr Shillibear’s patent hearses drawn by black-plumed horses, decked out in the appropriate grim paraphernalia of woe….

‘
Aaaargh
!’ The apparition that suddenly appeared in front of me, I tell you, it made my heart leap in panic. The hollow,
blackened
eyes, the ghastly white, chalky face of the man who had performed Sam Small was thrust before me, grimacing and mouthing wildly. For a moment I was taken aback, half rising to my feet, and then I realized who it was. ‘Grenwood! That was
you
leading the singing?’

‘None other!’ the Honourable Lester Grenwood said
cheerfully
. He mopped his brow: he was sweating freely and the chalk on his handsome features was streaked and dirty. ‘What did you think of it?’

‘Loud enough for sure,’ I replied.

Charlie Wilkins leaned forward, grinning. ‘But don’t try to make a living at it, my friend. The money’s not good enough.’

Grenwood laughed. ‘I’ve no such intention. I just wanted to see how I could handle a mob – and I wanted to collect a wager.’

‘Talking of which—’ I began, seeing my opportunity, and always quick to jump in where money was concerned.

‘Keep a place for me at the table,’ Grenwood interrupted. ‘And I need a pint of porter. Just give me time to wash this lot off.’

He thrust his way through the milling crowd, enduring much backslapping and catcalling congratulations. Wilkins watched him go. He pulled a face. ‘Friend of yours?’

‘An acquaintance,’ I admitted.

‘Wealthy?’

‘His father is. Lord Havermere.’

‘That bloody skinflint.’ Wilkins shrugged and inserted a probing finger into one hairy ear. ‘I acted for Havermere some years back. Had more than a little difficulty prising my fees out of the old bugger. I warn you, your friend will hardly be kept in the ready money by that tight-clawed old buzzard.’

He paused, eyed me reflectively with his sad, wise eyes, and shook his head. ‘Talking of which, I hear you’ve been facing some difficulties recently.’

I sniffed carelessly. ‘Let’s just say I’m keeping close to the Temple these days.’

Wilkins caressed his muttonchop whiskers with thoughtful fingers. He nodded. ‘Right. Sensible behaviour. Can’t get you there, damned tradesmen.’ He hiccupped loudly and took a long swig at his porter. ‘Though it’s said about the Inn that most of your debts are due to your activity at the gaming tables.’

I could tell from the tone of his voice that Charlie was about to give me sound advice. I’d had more than enough of that from my penny-pinching father. It was cash I needed, not homilies. Another song had started up. ‘
There were three whores from Mexico and they went out to dine
…’ I turned away from Charlie, and beat my hand on the table to the rhythm. Charlie took the hint, and devoted his full attention to his pot before joining in with the roaring chorus.

By the end of the numerous, sometimes repeatedly bawled verses, Lester Grenwood had returned. He had washed his face, removed the dirty smock, and looked reasonably presentable again in his well-cut, high-collared coat and somewhat
wine-stained
satin shirt. His face was still flushed with excitement and drink, however, as he took his seat and gestured to the pint pot. ‘This mine?’

I nodded, and watched as Grenwood drained it. He turned in his seat and bawled at the waiter, who came hurrying across. Wilkins accepted the offer of another pint pot with alacrity; I settled for a brandy and water. When I heard Grenwood order three more drinks I raised my eyebrows.

Grenwood winked at me. ‘Some people joining us. Crosier Hilliard’s due here – with some company he’s collecting for us.’

I stared at him. I knew Hilliard slightly: a moneyed
man-about
-town who had purchased a commission in the Hussars … not that he’d ever stir himself to fight for Queen and Country…. He was an assiduous frequenter of low night haunts. I didn’t much care for him: he was little more than a loud-mouthed bully who enjoyed swaggering around town in his uniform, in my view. And while I was never a saint myself, there was one thing
about Hilliard that disgusted me: it was his incontinent pursuit of pleasure. It marked him out as an appropriate companion if you were roaring drunk yourself and inclined to disregard
flea-bitten
hovels and penny a pinch whores. But on no other occasions. Even so, I needed to talk to Grenwood, so it seemed I would have to put up with Hilliard’s company. A few moments later I caught sight of the moustachioed military man swaying his way through the milling crowd, with a young woman clutching each arm. He was drunk. Inevitably. And the women were free souls.

‘Grenwood,’ I began urgently, ‘if we could have a word before—’

‘Dollymops,’ Grenwood chuckled amorously, eyeing the girls on Hilliard’s arm. ‘Out for a night on the town with the
gennlemen
. Lieutenant Hilliard … ladies … we would be delighted that you are able to join us.’

He stood up, attempting a low, exaggerated bow but
staggered
, laughed loudly and then pushed me along the bench to make way for the two gaudily dressed women. They were young, I observed, not yet twenty: they wore pork-pie hats with waving feathers, silk
paletots
, wide skirts. They had Irish accents, were giggly, foolish, and slightly drunk. They would not be Haymarket professionals, they’d have no pimps, probably be milliners, I surmized, or seamstresses, picked up outside the Adelphi, and out for a good time. There had been occasions, I admit, when I had taken some such back to the security of my chambers late at night, but of recent months I had become bored with that game. Couldn’t afford it, either. Even dollymops came at a price.

Charlie Wilkins was not averse to the additional company: he’d already slipped his arm around one of the young girls and was whispering in her ear: she giggled and leaned
provocatively
against him so that the scarf she was wearing fell forward loosely and we were all treated to the sight of a half-exposed
bosom of generous proportions. Hilliard sat down on the other side of the girl, across the table from me and looked a little angry. He had clearly been drinking heavily, and his
plum-coloured
roll-collared waistcoat was stained, marked with porter and chalk. I guessed he had helped prepare Grenwood for the Sam Small chorus, before going out into the Lane to pick up the dollymops.

‘Right, Crosier, we made a wager, so pay up.’ Grenwood stuck his open hand under Hilliard’s nose. Reluctantly Hilliard slipped some notes into Grenwood’s hand.

I eyed them acquisitively as Grenwood crowed, ‘Never thought I’d do it, did you?’

‘Never thought you’d be fool enough, that’s for sure.’ Crosier Hilliard scowled behind his flamboyant moustaches.

‘Aw, go on,’ the second girl disagreed, stroking Grenwood’s face. ‘I heard him as we came in. He’s got a
beeyewtiful
voice. Good enough for the hopera, says I.’

But Hilliard barely paid attention to her. He was out of temper, glaring at the elderly lawyer seated opposite and the young woman girl placed beside him, clearly incensed by the manner in which Charlie Wilkins was fumbling drunkenly at the girl’s bosom. His blue eyes were cold with fury and there was a line of perspiration in his thinning fair hair. He tugged at his side whiskers and leaned forward to remonstrate with Wilkins.

Things could get ugly very quickly in such circumstances as you’ll be aware: you’ll have seen more than a few bar-room brawls in American waterfronts, no doubt. I’ve never been one for settling business with fists so to create a diversion I tugged at Grenwood’s sleeve. ‘So, about this
Running Rein
business—’

Grenwood gave me an owlish look. ‘Colonel Peel is welshing, I hear, but if you ask me it’ll be that bugger Bentinck behind him, flicking his flanks with the whip.’

‘That’s as may be, but there’s also the matter of the money you borrowed against that paper I signed—’

But Grenwood was turning away, guffawing, amused at Hilliard’s discomfiture at the sight of his projected conquest being enjoyed by Wilkins. He himself had his own prey firmly embraced, and he leered at her, taunting Hilliard. ‘And what did you say your name was, my pretty chick?’

His left hand was gripping the girl’s chin while his right pawed at her half exposed bosom. The tightness of his grip had caused her heavily-rouged cheeks to puff out, and she was unable to reply. Hilliard, drunk as he was, frowned and put out a restraining hand. ‘Go easy, Grenwood, that’s not the way—’

‘To hell with you, Hilliard,’ Grenwood flashed in a quick burst of temper. He was always a bit that way, quick to take offence. ‘The arrangement was that you were taking the other one.’

‘There’s not much chance of that, with this old lecher mauling her!’

‘Lecher?’ Charlie Wilkins was fuddled, but had enough wit left to pretend to resent the term. ‘Now I could show you lechers, if you desire, but
my
intentions …’ He hiccupped, and leered at the young dollymop, while he squeezed her knee and fumbled with her skirt. ‘I assure you my intentions are entirely dis … dishonourable..’

‘Then I’ll trouble you to find your own company,’ Hilliard snarled. He stood up, reached across the table, grabbed old Charlie’s wrist and twisted it, pulling his hand from the girl’s thigh and shouldering Wilkins away from her. The push was a violent one and Charlie Wilkins was sitting on the end of the bench. I put out a restraining hand but was too late: my fat friend lost his balance and lurched sideways: his ungainly, portly body was too heavy for his drunken legs and he went down in a heap beside the table, his head under the stairs. He let out a shout of indignation, and struggled for a moment, but then looked up at the sneering Hilliard, seemed to have second thoughts about getting to his feet: he wriggled a little, sighed and gave up the fight. He put his head back, began breathing with a deep snoring
sound, smiling at the stairs above his head. After a little while his eyes began to close.

‘He’ll be all right there, and out of harm’s way,’ Crosier Hilliard said roughly, and sniggered in a high, nasal tone. He slipped into Wilkins’s place and put his arm around the girl he had selected for his own conquest. ‘Now then, Cissie – that’s your pretty name, isn’t it? Drink up, and we’ll have a good time here before we take you to one of the supper houses.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Lester Grenwood agreed. He drained his pint pot, thumped it on the table, and roared for the waiter. He glanced at me. ‘James, you’ll be joining us?’

Suddenly, I was bored with the whole scene. It was clear to me that Grenwood was in no state to listen to my pleas for a little financial assistance to tide me over. I was flogging a horse that’d already expired. I shook my head, and gestured towards the man lying below the stairs. ‘No, four’s company – five gives a problem. Besides, I’d better get Charlie back to Serjeants Inn. He’s due on his feet in the Old Bailey tomorrow morning.’

‘Get the fat lecher home,’ Hilliard said, his mouth vicious beneath his flamboyant cavalry moustaches. ‘That’ll teach him to interfere in another man’s pleasures and handle what he’s not paying for. For a penny on a drum I’d just as well—’

‘Leave it, Hilliard,’ Grenwood interrupted. ‘He’s beyond it, anyway, rumbling away down there like a flatulent horse. So, James, if you’re leaving—’

I was rising to my feet but Grenwood suddenly stopped speaking. His glance had slid past me and was fixed on someone standing behind me. I turned, looked over my shoulder.

It’s more than thirty years ago, you know, but the odd thing is I can still see her in my mind’s eye, even after all these years. She was no more than eighteen, I guessed. She had soft brown hair that lay curling about her face, and she was dressed carefully in a becoming fashion, a white silk bonnet trimmed with ribbon, light cotton gown and a grey cloak. Her eyes were wide, dark in
colour, and her complexion was fair, but she had applied a little too much rouge to her cheeks, and there were dark rings under her eyes. She was dressed for a night out in the West End, showing a fine bosom, but her mouth was edged with
unhappiness
, and in her eyes there was a mingling of anxiety, anger and sadness. She stood there silently, eyeing Grenwood and the dollymop in his arms, clearly distressed.

‘Harriet,’ Grenwood said after a moment, with an unpleasant sneer. ‘Sweet Harriet … come and join us! Here you are, James, here’s company.’

The young woman’s glance slid away from the girl Grenwood was caressing, to look briefly at me. She shook her head, almost helplessly, turned back to Grenwood. ‘No, not tonight. I came… I would like a word with you, Lester.’

Crosier Hilliard snorted, glanced at Grenwood and giggled in a high falsetto. ‘
Lester
, hey?’

‘Come and join us,’ Grenwood insisted roughly, nettled at Hilliard’s jibe. ‘You can take your pick of the company. I’m already engaged of course, but there’s James here – or there’s the old ruffian on the floor, if you can wake him up before morning.’ He laughed uproariously. ‘Get him into a hansom cab and you could turn out his pockets and he wouldn’t know a thing about it. Or take him back to his chambers in Serjeants Inn and you could dun him for all he’s got!’ He eyed her with an insulting calculation. ‘Now that could bring you a far better fee than you’d be accustomed to.’

She started as though slapped. ‘Lester, please.’

The girl’s voice was low and urgent. I watched her. Her hands clutched at the handkerchief at her waist, and her eyes were pleading with Grenwood.

‘Please what? You want a word? Have as many as you desire! We’re all friends together. Come and join us. James here, by the way, is an up-and-coming man of the law and you’d be well advised—’

I was sober enough to feel irritated. ‘I’m leaving, Grenwood,’ I snapped curtly. I was uneasy about the girl and disliked Grenwood’s tone with her.