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Authors: Roy Lewis

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BOOK: Dead Ringer
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‘Lester, please, I’d like a word in private.’ The girl was near to tears.

Grenwood shook his head. ‘Harriet, sweet Harriet, I’m having a good time. I’m not inclined to be interrupted at my leisure. You can’t come in here with a mournful look and expect me to walk outside with you, when I’ve other arrangements in hand.’ He grinned at the bold-eyed dollymop beside him and plunged his hand into the top of her dress, jiggled her breasts roughly while she squealed and wriggled in mock distress. He looked back challengingly at the woman in front of him. ‘So, if you don’t want to join us and look after James here, or the old sot on the floor, well, then get out of here!’

She blinked and there was the glistening of tears on her cheeks. ‘Lester, I—’

‘Lester, Lester, Lester … who gave you permission to use my name freely in public?’ Grenwood snarled. His eyes were suddenly filled with a cold fury and his tone was contemptuous. ‘How clearly do I have to give you the message? I’m busy; I’m having a good time with friends.
New
friends,’ he added emphatically, as he pulled at the girl beside him, hugged her to him fiercely, until she gasped in open-mouthed protest. ‘You’ve had your time with me, Harriet, and for a while it was a good time, but it’s over. You begin to bore me with your whining, you hear? So I’m not going to have a word with you – in public or private – so get out of my sight.’

A vein throbbed angrily in his temple. As he glared at her, I could almost feel the rage building up inside him. His tone suddenly became even more vicious. ‘And another thing – that sporting brother of yours had the temerity to accost me in the street! You tell him if he approaches me again I’ll horsewhip him within an inch of his life! Now, get out, unless you’ve got some
other fancy young buck you can turn to here. Back to the street, before I get the waiters to turn you out. They don’t care for
unaccompanied
sluts in here!’

It was as though he had punched her in the stomach. Her face paled. She took a step backward. For a long moment she stood there staring at him, as though she was unable to comprehend. Then her paleness was replaced by a slow, staining crimson as she became aware that curious faces were turned towards her from nearby tables, hearing Grenwood’s upraised voice. She hesitated, trembling, helpless fingers twisting together. She seemed to be about to say something but the passionate words died on her lips. There was desperation in her eyes as she turned away, pushing through the crowd. A few moments later she was lost to view.

I had watched her go in silence. I turned back to Grenwood. I no longer wanted to borrow money from him or talk to him about maybe taking on my paper at a discount. I felt that badly about his vicious behaviour. ‘That was ill-done, Grenwood, and harsh.’

‘Harsh?’ Grenwood snorted in contempt. ‘If you’re so concerned about her, go after her. No one’s going to make a fool of me.’ He pushed the dollymop aside in a sudden movement, stood up and leaned forward drunkenly, a vicious anger twisting his mouth. He faced me, knuckles on the table. ‘Are you criticizing me? Over a slut like that? Because let me tell you about our sweet little Harriet. Have no illusions. I’ve given her a good time for three months now, which is longer than I’d give most of her kind, but she was fun, she could hold her liquor better than most, and she was good in bed. But if she thinks she can come in here to touch me for money, she can think again. I’ve told her it’s over, and that’s enough. I won’t be embarrassed by a whore in front of my friends.’

‘She was distressed—’

‘Distressed be damned. It was an act. I know what it’s all
about. She reckons she’s pregnant.’ He sneered at me. ‘And we’ve all heard that story before, haven’t we? She says she was a virgin when we met, and now she’s with child—’

‘The Immaculate Deception,’ Hilliard sniggered.

Grenwood whooped with laughter. ‘I can hardly claim that’s the case, the way I’ve been rogering her these last months! But when she came up with that old story, I gave her five pounds and told her to seek some other fool to dun. And then her thug of a brother comes complaining to me! I told him he could go to the devil! Pregnant be damned!’

He snorted indignantly. ‘It could be anyone’s. She’ll not convince me I’m the only man who’s been mounting her at night. She’s nothing but an amateur whore trying to step up market. But not with me, she won’t – not on my back!’

‘Nor on your front, either, hey, Grenwood?’ Crosier Hilliard laughed, and pulled the girl called Cissie closer to him. I looked at the two dollymops: they seemed somewhat sobered by the conversation, a little scared by the appearance of Harriet, a girl not too much different from themselves, and alarmed by the turn of the conversation. But they’d soon come round, I guessed: with two drunken gentlemen to wine and dine them, they would take what they could get, and then give what they had available in turn.

‘Stay on, James,’ Grenwood glowered, sitting down again, wrinkling his nose. He bared his teeth, half-regretting his outburst. ‘Look here, the evening’s young. Let’s talk, see what we can do about that damned
Running Rein
business. I tapped up my old man but—’

I shook my head. I’d had my fill of Grenwood that evening. ‘I’d better get Wilkins back to the Inn.’

I called for assistance from the waiters: they were well used to this kind of thing and two came forward immediately. When I finally managed with their help to get Charlie lurching out into the street he was barely able to stand. One of the waiters called
to a waiting cabman outside the Adelphi Theatre: he cracked his whip and rattled forward, scattering the small knot of hopeful whores at the stage-door entrance. I pushed my drunken colleague into the hansom cab and he immediately collapsed in the corner and began to snore. I climbed in beside him. There was a smell of damp leather in the close darkness. ‘Serjeant’s Inn. Then on to the Inner Temple.’

As we clattered down into the darkness of Maiden Lane it began to rain, a fine light drizzle that thinned the clinging yellow mist, and I shuddered, drew my
roquelaire
more closely about me. It was an old cloak, and the style was going out of fashion. I’d have to get a new Chesterfield, I thought gloomily, as Wilkins belched, farted, and muttered incoherently in his stupor.

We reached the corner of Maiden Lane and turned towards the Strand. It was then that, in one of the doorways, head down, arms crossed over her breasts, huddling against the rain, I caught sight of a young woman. She was familiar; I wondered briefly whether it was Harriet, and I hesitated, was tempted to call on the driver to stop. But I made no move; then we were rumbling on and I sank back in his seat. It was Grenwood’s
business
, I told myself. It was not for me to interfere.

Looking back now, I realize that was a fateful error: if I had interfered, things might have been so very different, for her, and in the long run for me too. If I had stopped the cabman, got out, spoken to her, who knows but I might have taken a different path in my life? I doubt it, but who can tell?

We clattered and lurched on through the damp streets. I deposited Wilkins with the gate keeper at Serjeants Inn and went on in the hansom to my own chambers at Inner Temple Lane. I felt vaguely depressed. The fire had died. I shook out my cloak, took off my boots and settled into an armchair to partake of another brandy and water alone in my rooms before making my way to my lodgings on the floor above. I contemplated looking over the papers my clerk Villiers had prepared for me, but then
discarded the dispiriting thought. There’d be time enough in the morning I lied to myself. After another brandy and water I went to my chamber.

I slept badly and when I woke it was still dark, perhaps four in the morning, and the feeling of depression was still with me. I drifted back into a semi-comatose state and finally rose, later than usual, groggy with snatched sleep; I was due in court at nine o’clock. Bewigged and gowned, I barely made it in time, clutching the unread brief papers that Villiers had prepared.

To my amazement, when I entered the Old Bailey I saw that Charles Wilkins was already there, bright-eyed as a squirrel and beaming about him. He nodded a cheerful greeting to me and then, papers in hand, rose to his feet. He seemed completely unaffected by his night’s activities. He clapped his hand upon my shoulder. ‘An enjoyable evening, what I remember of it,’ he said, and winked. ‘I gather it was you who conducted me back to the Inn: you have my thanks.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘We must do it again some time.’ He looked about him. ‘Meanwhile, your clerk’s been looking for you.’

Sure enough, that scoundrel Villiers was standing near the door. He caught sight of me, hurried forward, apologized for missing me at my chambers. ‘Mr James, I need to speak to you. I’ve arranged an appointment for later this morning, at Mr Cockburn’s chambers.’

I raised my eyebrows. An appointment with one of the leading lights at the Bar? Alexander Cockburn, QC? ‘What’s Cockburn want with me?’

The collar of Villiers’ shirt was grubby. He fingered it in his usual obsequious fashion. ‘It’s the
Running Rein
business. As is commonly known, Colonel Peel has defaulted. Mr Ernest Wood has taken out a writ. It is reported that the case will come on in the Exchequer Court. The Solicitor General has been retained for Colonel Peel. Mr Cockburn has accepted the brief for Mr Wood.’

I can still remember the surge of anticipatory excitement that travelled through my veins. But I managed to retain my casual tone. ‘So?’

Villiers handed me a document, tied in pink string. ‘Mr Cockburn will naturally require a junior to support him. Mr Wood has requested that you be briefed.’

I stared at the writing on the face of the brief. The solicitors were identified as Bulstrode and Bulstrode from Exeter. But I also saw other names. Cockburn and James. A fine combination. And it would mean a fine fat fee.

It was my first step on the ladder to success. I knew it,
instinctively
. What I did not appreciate at the time was that it also signified the first step on a long, slippery slope downwards, to disgrace and ignominy.

You know, my boy, when you’re at the top of the tree, it’s a long way down. And the sad thing is, there’s no bugger waiting at the bottom to break your fall.

But just then, standing in the courtroom with the brief for
Wood v Peel
in my hands, knowing it would be a hearing that all of London would want to attend, all I could think of was that my financial problems would now soon be over.

I could ride to glory, on the back of
Running Rein.

3

That foxy little bastard Cockburn kept us waiting, of course, in his anteroom, just by way of making an unspoken
demonstration
of his importance. But the delay gave me the opportunity to become acquainted with the briefing solicitor Mr Bulstrode.

I could see at a glance that the burly Mr Bulstrode thought he knew a Great Man when he saw one. He came towards me, with a deferential bow.

‘You come highly recommended, sir,’ he averred in an
obsequious
tone. By the corn merchant, of course. This, on the basis of a card handed to a triumphant – now infuriated – horse owner. I’d been lucky, if unprincipled.

In the next few minutes I realized that Bulstrode was also the kind of person who considered himself to be no fool.

‘I tell you, sir,’ he confided in me as we waited, ‘there are those who assume that, because I have a West Country accent and affect gilt buttons on my waistcoat, my wits are not as sharp and my judgment as measured as other London solicitors. They might think me a dandy….’

It was exactly how he impressed me, with his high-collared, dark-blue coat and stiff stock, the satin ornamented with a small diamond and pin connected with a thin gold chain.

‘But to make assumptions about my perspicacity from such evidence is, in my view, shortsightedness on their part,’ he averred.

I listened with interest, and kept my eyes on the diamond and pin. He was not yet forty years of age, he advised me proudly, and had already established a successful practice in London, from the Exeter firm his father had founded: Bulstrode and Bulstrode were now a force to be reckoned with in both the West Country and the metropolis. He was a relatively wealthy man and did not need to seek work, but he enjoyed the bustle and excitement of the London courts and the Home Circuit. And though he did not say so, he clearly enjoyed rubbing shoulders with Great Men.

Alexander Cockburn, as we both knew, was already a Great Man. A Queen’s Counsel with a considerable reputation. And I had been highly recommended, so Bulstrode already regarded me with respect. He kept me entertained with views about his own connections in the West Country but leapt eagerly to his feet when Cockburn’s clerk asked us to enter the chambers, and even stepped aside to allow me the privilege of preceding him.

Alexander Cockburn, confident in his social and professional
superiority, made no attempt to rise from behind his desk when we entered. Small in stature, neat in appearance, vain,
red-haired
and somewhat vulpine in features, Cockburn had built himself a powerful reputation over the years. Not just in the courts, I should add: I had heard he’d scrambled out of numerous windows in his youth, just before irate, horsewhip-
in-hand
husbands had burst into marital bedchambers. But the wild young bachelor was now considered to have matured into an eminent, sage and successful pleader before the courts, known for the vehemence and insistence of his cross-
examination
technique. At the Bar, of course, I still heard whispers of liaisons and visits to married ladies in the afternoons, but they were muted, and the talk now was of the significant successes that Cockburn had won in cases of moment.

So there I was that day in Cockburn’s chambers, briefed in my first big case. I was convinced about the implications.
Wood v Peel
was destined to launch me on the road to fame and wealth.

I did not realize, of course, that it would also hurl me into eventual infamy, poverty and disgrace. At the time, I saw it only as opportunity.

BOOK: Dead Ringer
10.86Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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