Dead Ringer (8 page)

‘Is
Running Rein
a four year old, Mr Wood?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘And are you alone in your opinion?’

‘I have the animal’s pedigree from Mr Goodman.’

‘And this claim of Colonel Peel … that the horse is really a four year old, had not this claim been dealt with elsewhere previously? Had it not already been answered on a previous occasion?’

‘Of course,’ Wood said quickly, recognizing my drift. ‘It was the substance of the protest made prior to the race, to the Jockey Club, by Lord George Bentinck.’

‘Which was …’

‘Refused, sir.’ Indignantly, Ernest Wood appealed to the judge. ‘The Stewards of the Jockey Club supported me, but Colonel Peel still refused to pay out after the race was won, because of the insistence of Lord George Bentinck!’

A storm of hissing and catcalling broke out as the unruly mob at the back of the room stamped their feet and expressed their support of the corn merchant against the might of the racing aristocracy. Bentinck was scarlet-faced with anger as he leaned forward, thick fingers clamped on his gold-topped walking stick. Baron Alderson hammered at the bench, and the lady seated beside him fluttered her fan while her companion Lord Stradbroke leaned forward to assure her all was well and this scene would not be comparable in its conclusion to the storming of the Bastille. When the noise finally subsided, I sat down and Wood was released from the witness box.

Cockburn smiled slightly at me, nodded, satisfied with the uproar, and then rose to his feet. It was time to call Lewis Goodman.

Goodman was well over six feet in height. There was a great deal of chattering in the courtroom and it was evident that his appearance was well recognized by the sporting fraternity who were present. The ladies in particular leaned forward to get a better view of the witness. There was a certain amount of fan-
fluttering
and sighing, amid a great deal of cat-calling from the mob.

Cockburn took Goodman through his evidence quickly. Goodman stated that the colt had been bred in Ireland where it had been trained by one Sam McGuire. Mr McGuire was presently in Ireland and was unable to be present at the hearing. Goodman had bought the animal as a one year old and had trained it. The man he had employed as trainer was one Joseph Bartle….

I ground my teeth, feeling a premonition again: Joe Bartle, the missing witness.

Goodman stated he had bought the animal at Malton in Yorkshire. He had run it at York and Chester before selling it for personal reasons to Ernest Wood. He was able to present Mr Wood with a full pedigree for the animal. He himself had placed certain bets on
Running Rein
for the Derby, but he agreed he had also placed bets on other horses. He was aware of the enquiry into the horse’s age by the Jockey Club and fully supported their conclusion: he had provided them with reports and they had confirmed that the animal was indeed a two-year-old colt. He had no connections either with Mr Wood or Colonel Peel beyond those he had stated. He had no financial interest in the case itself: his own bets had been settled as matters of honour. He smiled when the crowd hissed at the implication: the Prime Minister’s brother was not a man of honour.

‘Give it to ‘em, Goody!’ someone yelled at the back of the courtroom as his evidence was concluded. There was a further brief outburst of cheerful pandemonium before the ushers restored order. Two members of the swell mob were expelled, as I recall.

The Solicitor General rose, tugging at his gown, and shuffling the sheaf of papers in his hand. He paused for a little while, allowing the air of expectation to grow about him: I liked that touch. Fitzroy Kelly looked up finally, puffed out his pigeon chest and gave the witness a thin smile.

‘Your name, sir?’

‘Lewis Goodman.’

Kelly frowned, made a play of consulting the sheets in his hands. ‘Lewis Goodman … But here I have … surely it is Levy Goodman?’

Goodman’s eyes hardened. ‘No, sir.’

‘You’ve changed your name, then.’

‘I have not.’

Fitzroy Kelly affected a puzzled frown, and shook his head doubtfully. ‘Perhaps I have been misinformed … Mr Goodman, you are of the Christian persuasion?’

‘I am.’

‘Not of the Jewish faith?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t owe allegiance to the synagogue rather than the—’

Alexander Cockburn rose almost lazily, uncoiling himself from his seat. ‘My lord, I must protest this line of questioning. In seeking to ascertain the identity of a horse it can be of no
relevance
whether or not Mr Goodman is a practising member of the Church of England – or any other, for that matter.’

The Solicitor General waved a dismissive hand at the
objection
. ‘It is a matter of veracity, rather than religion, that I seek to place before the court, but no matter … Mr Goodman, do you have any interest in a club called Rouget’s, in Castle Street?’

‘I do. But it is an eating house, not a club.’

‘Whereas the premises in Panton Street are best described as a … night house?’

Goodman paused, a thin smile on his lips. The diamond pin sparkled on his vest. He remained at ease when he replied, ‘A place of entertainment.’

There was a drumming of feet from the mob and approving laughter.

‘A place of entertainment … of a certain kind. Are you aware the night house in question is normally referred to as Goody Levy’s?’ Kelly displayed a feral smile. ‘A distinctly Jewish name, would you not agree? A name derived from your own, as
proprietor
?’

‘My lord—’ Cockburn began to rise once more to his feet.

Fitzroy Kelly beat him to it. ‘I am merely attempting to sketch for the benefit of the court the reputation of the gentlemen who calls himself Lewis Goodman. But I can move on to perhaps more relevant matters which will equally well serve the purpose. Mr Goodman, have you ever been banned from a racecourse?’

‘Never.’

‘Have you ever appeared before an enquiry of the Jockey Club?’

‘Twice.’ Goodman raised an eyebrow and gave a confident smile. ‘Successfully.’

‘You place heavy wagers at the races?’

‘I do – as do most noble lords present today in this courtroom. Heavy wagers, yes. But certainly not as much as Lord George Bentinck.’

There was laughter at the back of the court and a further drumming of feet. Fitzroy Kelly was annoyed, and pressed on sharply. ‘Do you know of a horse called
Maccabeus
?’

‘I do not.’

‘Or
Gladiator?
’

I’d been well briefed by Ben Gully. There was danger here. Cockburn was silent, so I lunged to my feet. ‘This hearing is about a horse called
Running Rein
!’

Fitzroy Kelly rounded on me. He gave me what he considered
to be a withering glance. I remained unwithered as he continued, ‘No, sir, it is about an animal called
Maccabeus
masquerading under another name – that of
Running Rein
. And it is also about a horse called
Gladiator
, entered under the name
Lysander
—’

‘My lord, my confusion must equal your own!’ I protested to the Bench.

But Fitzroy Kelly was launched. ‘I intend to prove that
Running Rein
is what the sporting fraternity describe as a ringer – an animal substituted for another. I intend to prove that the horse entered as
Running Rein
is really a four year old called
Maccabeus
; that there was another horse entered as
Lysander
when it was really
Gladiator
; that both animals were once owned by Lewis Goodman, and that the man in the witness box, who lies about his own name and identity is guilty of perpetrating a criminal conspiracy—’

‘Is this a cross-examination or a closing speech?’ I yelled above the growing din and catcalling that had arisen throughout the courtroom. A fight seemed to have broken out on the back tiers and ushers ran forward to separate the struggling men. Infuriated, Baron Alderson was banging his gavel thunderously and when order was finally restored, I knew I’d got it right. He glowered at the Solicitor General.

‘Mr James is correct. This is supposed to be a cross-
examination
on evidence already given. By all means seek to discredit the witness, but stick to the matters in issue. As for you, Mr James …’ I wasn’t going to have it all my way. Alderson’s jowls were quivering dangerously and his eyes held angry little points of light. ‘I will keep counsel in order in my courtroom. I don’t need your help to do it.’

I acquiesced mildly, sitting down, but well satisfied. Cockburn was watching me with an odd light in his eye.

The Solicitor General had lost control; now he gritted his teeth and attacked Goodman in the witness box. He dredged up the matter of the Haymarket clubs, pressed him about alleged
welshing, about incidents of violence at Epsom the previous year. He questioned him about the bribing of trainers and jockeys and the practice of deliberately losing races in order to raise odds at subsequent events. And he questioned him about his general reputation. But he was unable to shake the witness: Goodman remained cool, a slight twitch in his cheek only
occasionally
betraying the tension he felt, and to all Kelly’s insinuations he merely repeated his denials. It was clear there were no proofs to be forthcoming, and his confidence remained unaffected. Ben Gully had told me Goodman would be a cool customer: Kelly was unable to breach his defences.

And as for the horses named by the Solicitor General, Goodman claimed he had not the faintest idea what was being talked about.

It was almost three in the afternoon before Goodman stood down. It was then I told Cockburn one of our witnesses was missing. It would have been a good time to introduce Bartle, to swear to the colt’s identity and its training in Ireland, in support of Goodman and Wood. But he was not in court. I smelled conspiracy.

We were saved by Baron Alderson. ‘We’ll adjourn for lunch,’ Baron Alderson intoned, and the court rose as he left the bench.

Cockburn leaned towards me, irritably. ‘Try to find out what’s happened to this man Bartle. And these other damned horses Fitzroy Kelly’s referred to … I’ve had no briefing about them.’ He gathered up his papers. ‘In my chambers in twenty minutes, if you please.’

We were there within the half-hour: me, Bulstrode, Ernest Wood and our next witness John Day. Cockburn tapped an impatient finger on the table in front of him. ‘We are going well enough so far but there are issues which cause me anxiety. If we are to adequately represent Mr Wood we need to know what the other side are likely to come up with – and this attack upon our witness Goodman, and the talk of these other animals….’

The corn merchant was clearly out of his depth. He shook his head. ‘
Maccabeus
… I know that Bentinck made this claim weeks ago but Baron le Tissier ruled it out in the Jockey Club enquiry. As for the others …’

Cockburn sniffed. He turned his head and observed John Day closely. ‘And you, sir, do you know anything about these animals?’

Ben Gully had told me there was little John Day did not know about the skulduggeries of the racing fraternity. Now, the little man hesitated, scratched his lean, lined cheek. ‘There have been rumours….’ He glanced around him. ‘But they’re rumours only. It is said that Mr Goodman did indeed own two colts –
Running Rein
and
Lysander
. The one he sold to Mr Wood, here. The other, it is said, was run in someone else’s name, but was really owned by Goodman.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s no way of proving it.’

There was a short silence. ‘So …’ Cockburn said heavily, ‘what about this charge that these horses are not what they seem?’

John Day’s features were expressionless. ‘I don’t know about that, Mr Cockburn. If the Solicitor General says
Running Rein
is really
Maccaebus
, and
Lysander
is really
Gladiator
, let him prove it.
Lysander
fell early on, anyway, so it don’t signify much.’

Cockburn sighed, unconvinced. ‘So we’re no further forward.’

‘Before Fitzroy Kelly goes any further, I think it’s time we attacked the other side through Lord George.’ I suggested.

‘By way of your evidence, I believe,’ Cockburn said, sliding a serpentine glance at John Day.

John Day’s eyes narrowed and he licked his lips. He seemed uneasy. ‘There’s no love lost between Lord George and myself.’ He hesitated. ‘He … let me down. I’ll say no more than that. But I know a great deal about Lord George. Some of it I’ve written down for Mr Bulstrode, here. The rest—’

‘The
Crucifix
case,’ I prompted.

Day nodded. For Cockburn’s benefit I narrated how Bentinck had bet heavily on a horse called
Crucifix
running for the Oaks,
but had put it about that the animal was lamed, until the starting price fell. In the subsequent race he had made a great deal of money. ‘Through fraud and lies.’ I added.

‘You can give evidence of this?’ Cockburn asked Day.

John Day hesitated, then ducked his head unwillingly. There was silence in the room for a little while. I glanced at Bulstrode. The solicitor was sweating profusely. Beside him, Ernest Wood looked thunderstruck: things were getting complicated and he was clearly regretting what he had got himself into by bringing this case against Colonel Peel.

Alexander Cockburn twitched his nostrils and rose slowly to his feet. ‘I think, Mr James, I’ll let
you
deal with Lord George Bentinck.’

He had seen the way a rush of blood had earlier sent me dancing to my feet. He knew I was young and aggressive. Cockburn had no desire personally to attack the Jockey Club. As for me … I was inexperienced, perhaps reckless. And I had a reputation to establish.

And that really is how the
Running Rein
case all began to fall apart.

The evening session of the court in those days began at five. As was the fashion, Alderson had partaken of a generous lunch in Judges’ Lodgings, including copious quantities of wine, and would have relaxed over the after lunch port. At least, he seemed in a somewhat more mellow mood when we resumed. We had sent runners out to the stables but there was still no sign of Bartle so Cockburn called to the witness box the stable hand John Marsh, who gave evidence supportive of Lewis Goodman’s testimony.