Dead Ringer (7 page)

In the courtroom itself there was a certain amount of not so good-natured stamping, hissing and catcalling when Lord George Bentinck himself made his appearance. He was never popular with the mob. It was all an entertainment, you see. Was, and still is. And in those days you even had to pay to get in unless you were one of the principal actors in the drama, like me.

The old courts have gone now, but in those days the Exchequer was wider than the other designated rooms in Westminster Hall, and boasted tiered seats for counsel,
witnesses and the public so all could obtain a good view of what was going on. I beat my way through the sweating, noisy crowd and took my seat beside Alexander Cockburn on the open, front row. I noted that the Solicitor General was already seated at the far end, poring over his brief, flanked by two junior counsel I vaguely recognized. Lord George Bentinck had taken a seat beside him. Baron le Tissier and Colonel Peel were seated stiffly in the row behind.

I’d arrived early because the benches allocated to the
barristers
employed were sometimes seized by idlers who were difficult to dislodge before the judge made his appearance on the bench. As it was, I’d been forced physically to eject one
importunate
, half-inebriated fellow who seemed to think he was in his rights, lounging on the bench with his half-soled boots on the table in front of him, before I could take my place. Bulstrode and one of his clerks were in the row just behind us.

I can still almost feel the way it was that day. There had been a late sitting the previous night: the air was still thick, odorous and musty and the dilapidated walls of the courtroom were damp. Mind you, I’ve seen the walls running with water on other occasions because the ventilation was so abominable, but by arriving early we were granted the leisure to inspect the dingy pictorial nudities which had been sketched on the peeling walls by bored witnesses, suitors or unemployed barristers the previous evening. Some of them were quite inventive, even to my experienced eye … it’s surprising what one could learn about life from the Exchequer Court walls. Though I have to say that the walls of the Old Bailey were even more instructive.

The courtroom filled up rapidly and the babble of noise was reaching a crescendo as the mob fought for the remaining seats. Like all the courts, the Exchequer was as I told you, a place of entertainment for the idle. And they knew
Wood v Peel
could well prove entertaining enough to the mob.

Baron Alderson took his seat on the Bench at precisely nine
o’clock. He was a seasoned product of the Northern Circuit, a large, heavy man who gave the impression he was only half as pleased with himself as he had reason to be. He was a man of uncertain temper who was reputed to have a sense of humour. I never experienced it. Certainly, that morning he was clearly
ill-tempered
to a particular degree: his florid features were more flushed than usual and there was a malicious glitter in his eye. Bed bugs perhaps, or a female termagant with an even sharper bite. Rumour had it he was ruled by his wife, at home. He made up for that domestic humiliation in his courtroom by his
treatment
of counsel. His expression that morning made me feel the riding would be hard. Alderson was a strait-laced individual who was known to have little sympathy for or understanding of the sporting fraternity, and held decided, somewhat puritanical views about their reported behaviour.

Once the jostling on the benches had subsided the learned judge glowered around at his kingdom and invited Alexander Cockburn to open in
Wood v Peel
.

As always, my foxy little leader was clear, concise and
relevant
, indulged in no wild rhetoric, but he was so brief that I wondered whether he had another case pending elsewhere and was eager to get away. Even so the courtroom listened with interest as they heard Cockburn claim that Ernest Wood, the corn merchant from Epsom, had bought the colt
Running Rein
and entered it in the Derby.

‘The animal had a good pedigree,’ he said, ‘and I will shortly prove that the dispute between Mr Wood and Lord George Bentinck had really arisen prior to the running of the Derby. The reason behind the dispute? Not the age of the animal that
eventually
won, the dispute had arisen because Lord George had a runner in the race, was concerned about the form of his animal, feared the danger presented by Mr Wood’s entry, and so earlier conspired to prevent the entry of
Running Rein
by unfounded claims. But he failed in his attempt. Later, after the race was run
and his own horses lost, he persuaded the Jockey Club to support Colonel Peel in a refusal to honour bets made against the winning animal.’

Baron Alderson was already unhappy. He shifted
uncomfortably
on the Bench, glowered at Cockburn and sniffed. ‘I wonder whether learned counsel would make something clear to me,’ he growled.

‘Certainly, my lord.’

‘Precisely who is supposed to be the defendant in this case?’

‘Colonel Peel, my lord.’

‘From your opening remarks you would seem to be suggesting that it is Lord George Bentinck who should be the defendant, but I see his name nowhere in the pleadings.’

Cockburn’s thin nostrils were pinched. ‘There is a thought that Lord George Bentinck
should
be the real defendant in the case—’

The Solicitor General jumped up to intervene. Small, plump, soft-fingered, fussy of dress, precise of diction and careful of language, Fitzroy Kelly was one of those men who had got on at the bar in an uncommon fashion, by marrying the ugly daughter of a judge. Though come to think of it most daughters of judges are ugly … Kelly was also one of those benchers of the Inner Temple who did for me, years later, with trumped up charges. I disliked him in 1844: my dislike grew over the years.

That day in the Exchequer Court he exuded his usual air of finicky self-confidence. ‘As your lordship rightly points out, Lord George Bentinck is not a defendant here: the issue is a clear cut one, which Colonel Peel will defend to the death. The colt known as
Running Rein
is nothing but a—’

‘Mr Kelly, I need no assistance from you,’ Baron Alderson interrupted sourly, raising one hand. ‘You will have your
opportunity
for argument later.’

Unabashed, Fitzroy Kelly regained his seat. But he always was a thick-skinned man. Applepip Kelly he was called, after
making the preposterous defence in one poisoning case that the deceased had passed away as a result of eating apples.

As Cockburn continued his opening speech, I glanced across to the tiered witness seats. Ernest Wood, the plaintiff, was there, pale, his mouth uncertain, clearly unnerved by the situation. A great deal had been said of recent weeks: innuendos had flown about; it was understood he had been cut by certain members of the Jockey Club and some of the gentry had implied that he was lowering himself in the eyes of polite society, bringing this case against the Prime Minister’s brother. But there was a
doggedness
about his eyes, I noted: he had steeled himself to see it through. His honour had been impugned: Colonel Peel had welshed on a bet.

Beside Wood sat a small, wiry man with a bald head and fashionable muttonchop whiskers. He had quick, intelligent eyes and a tanned, wrinkled skin: a man of the outdoors. He was leaning sideways, listening to a lean, younger man with short cropped hair. I checked his witness list: the younger man would be John Marsh, a stable boy we would be calling to testify as to the age of the colt; the older, clean-shaven
individual
was the man Ben Gully had traced and persuaded to come to court.

John Day.

There should have been another witness from the stables, but I could not pick him out. As I looked around I saw that Ben Gully himself was in court, quietly tucked away on one of the end seats where he could escape the court easily if proceedings became boring, or his presence was required elsewhere. I nodded briefly: Gully rolled his errant eye at me in silent acknowledgement.

Seated behind John Day was Lewis Goodman.

Goodman cut an impressive figure. He was tall, clean-shaven and slimly built, with athletic shoulders and a dark, somewhat swarthy skin. His smooth black hair was thick, neatly swept
back on his head. He was of an almost Mediterranean
appearance
, the flash kind that would appeal to the ladies. His coat was expensively cut, a collar of velvet, the overall appearance
fashionably
moderate, apart from the heavy gold chain that adorned his vest. He would like gold, this man. Heavy eyebrows shielded Goodman’s eyes which seemed almost black. He caught my glance and held it, raised one eyebrow, riveting my attention. There was a certain appraisal in his eyes. Before I looked away, I noted that a slight smile touched his firm, confident mouth; it was as though he had summed up my character, filed away in his mind a picture of who and what I was. It made me feel uncomfortable as I turned away, leaned forward, to pay
attention
to Cockburn’s opening.

I kept glancing back in a surreptitious manner, seeking out Goodman for a while, irritated by the impression he had made on me. I tried to match his attitude by making my own
summation
of the man. I concluded he was a little too elegant, too well dressed, too confident in his air of cool confidence. He was almost flash, as though he was trying too hard; his rolled collar waistcoat was not flamboyant but its cut was too precise and his satin stock was a little too rich for my taste, as was the diamond pin that gleamed on his breast. Lewis Goodman was a gentleman trying to
prove
he was a gentleman, and there would be reasons for that. I had heard some of those reasons lay in the dark corners of the Haymarket and the Strand, and at Epsom; they were backed by a clientele that would use him but perhaps never approve of him.

Ben Gully had said he was a dangerous man.

It was just then I began to feel uneasy, as I looked away and glanced around the packed benches. I still couldn’t locate the missing witness. I inclined my head towards Bulstrode, seated behind me. He leaned forward, eagerly. I tapped my brief with an irritated finger. ‘I’ve got a name … Bartle. Where is he?’

Bulstrode grimaced, glanced sideways to John Day and
wriggled
unhappily. ‘I regret … it seems he has not put in an appearance this morning.’

‘Where the devil is he?’

‘No one seems to know. He works at
Running Rein
’s stables, but he just hasn’t turned up this morning to give evidence.’

I was far from pleased, I can tell you. Even in those relatively inexperienced days I never did like missing witnesses. They were like unseen shore cannon to a man-o’-war: they could send an over-confident ship to the bottom of the sea. I went back to my brief and the notes that Ben Gully had provided concerning John Day. Perhaps we wouldn’t need the missing stable hand, Joe Bartle. He was only there to support the evidence to be given by Lewis Goodman. He was there for corroboration, but even so his non-appearance made me nervous.

I waited as Cockburn wound up his opening statement. He then called Ernest Wood. We soon got to the nub of the matter, as the mob drummed impatient feet on the tiered benches.

Ernest Wood was sweating, but determined in his evidence. ‘Prior to the race large sums of money had been laid upon horses other than my own – notably,
Orlando
and
Ionian
. When I proclaimed the intention of entering
Running Rein
I was informed that a protest had been lodged.’

‘By whom?’ Cockburn asked, glancing around the courtroom theatrically.

‘Lord George Bentinck.’

‘Why do you think such a protest was lodged?’

‘Because Lord George—’

‘My lord,’ the Solicitor General rose to his feet, twitching his robe about his plump thighs in a pompous gesture. ‘Mr Wood is in no position to describe the state of mind of Lord George.’

When Baron Alderson agreed grumpily Cockburn smiled. ‘I waive the question. The matter can be dealt with later. Please continue, Mr Wood. What happened then?’

‘The protest was taken to the Committee of the Jockey Club.’

‘What was the result of the objection?’

‘It was refused.’

‘And then?’

‘The rest is a matter of undisputed fact,’ Wood said stoutly. ‘
Running Rein
was permitted to run and won the Derby. Colonel Peel’s horses
Orlando
and
Ionian
lost. And then, to my surprise, Colonel Peel refused to honour his bets. I was thus forced to bring this action.’

‘The details of the betting, and the amounts involved, are to be seen in the affidavits, my lord,’ Cockburn drawled. He began to go through the individual amounts until Fitzroy Kelly rose and announced airily that the amounts of the debts were not in dispute. I could guess why: he didn’t want the extent of Bentinck’s betting, and interest in disputing the identity of
Running Rein
to be emphasized in open court. The mob didn’t like it and feet drummed again. Baron Alderson scowled them to silence.

As Cockburn ended his examination, the Solicitor General rose to cross examine the corn merchant, and as might be expected, went straight to what the other side saw as the point in issue.

‘How long did you own the horse before entering it for the Derby?’

‘Three months.’

‘From whom did you purchase the animal?’

‘A Mr Lewis Goodman.’

‘And what was the ground on which Colonel Peel has refused to honour the bets placed?’

Wood hesitated, flushing. ‘He claimed that
Running Rein
was not eligible since it was in reality a four year old.’

‘Thank you.’

Fitzroy Kelly sat down. He had made no reference to the enquiry before the Committee of the Jockey Club. It was
something
we could use to twist the knife.

Cockburn nodded to me to deal with re-examination. I rose
and smiled at Wood, putting him more at ease, injecting some confidence into him, even though the blood was hammering in my own veins. My first big opportunity, with a baying mob and a courtroom full of reporters….