I MET BEN GULLY at the Blue Posts Inn. A man of the world yourself, you might have heard of the establishment … no?
The Blue Posts was down at the lower end of the Haymarket. During the day it served as an ordinary public house but after the closing of the theatres and the dancing halls in the evening it changed its character notably and became a regular adjournment place for those still seeking entertainment. At midnight the passage from the outside door and the large space in front of the bar was packed with pleasure-seekers, and men and women thronged the stairs leading to the upper rooms. There was always a roar and a din in the thick, confused atmosphere, reeking with spirits and tobacco, but the Scots couple who kept the inn maintained a tight control within the limits they set. During the day, it was quiet, and thinly frequented.
It was the reason why I arranged our meeting there.
My boy, I need to tell you about Ben Gully, who did much work for me in those days. A man of consequence. He wasn’t a tall man, perhaps five feet six in height and his overall build made him seem even shorter. He had a thick neck and broad shoulders, a chest like an armoire, a cicatriced forehead in a face that had been rearranged from time to time, and the kind of legs that wouldn’t stop a pig in a passage. He had fists like hams, and his knuckles were knobbled and scarred. There lurked in his eyes a cynical appreciation of the artifices of man, and it was clear from his demeanour that he was one well experienced in the darker activities of the metropolis.
Ben Gully was a man of knowledge. The throbbing heart of the London underworld lay at Ben Gully’s fingertips. He knew all the larcenous families who flourished in Whitechapel, and those who carried out the acts of highway robbery, burglary and shop-breaking in Whitechapel, Southwark and Lambeth. He could explain how the parish of St James was notable for drunkenness, prostitution and vagrancy while Clerkenwell harboured the horse-stealers under the control of a ring led by a man from Smithfield. He could point out the centres for coining and uttering counterfeit coin, run by two Jewish brothers, in Covent Garden; he knew the embezzlers of Islington, the arsonists in Marylebone and could identify the thirty two illegal pawnshops in Mile End and Lambeth. He knew who frequented the fourpenny brothels in Lambeth, and was well aware of what went on in 60 and 64 Regents Quadrant. Curious sexual activities I can tell you … but that is another story.
Ben reckoned the smelliest part of London was Bermondsey: the south bank opposite the Tower of London was where the dog turds gathered by street urchins were used to tan skins and hides into leather, but the most dangerous area of the lot was Clerkenwell, because of the murders and manslaughters committed there. He could quote verbatim the reports of the Constabulary Commissioners who had access to the main sources of information, but his own network of informers and spies, vagrants, thieves and cutpurses gave him a wide range of additional information to supplement official returns.
He was proud of his knowledge and achievements. I had been informed at one time that Gully had spent his early years among the wooden galleries and tidal ditches of Jacob’s Island, lived in cheap lodging houses down at the Docks and it was said that at one time he had robbed and assaulted with the best of them, emerging from the rookeries and vanishing again into their depths when the alarm was raised. But he got caught in the end, of course, by Inspector Whicher himself, on a charge of passing counterfeit bills. Charlie Dickens wrote about Whicher, you know – called him Witchem. And that sly, womanising reprobate Wilkie Collins, now – he used Whicher as the model for the rozzer in that book of his … what was it called? The Moonshine, that’s right. Or something like that. Inspector Cuff, Collins called him…. The charge against Ben Gully was trumped up by Whicher, naturally. Ben assured me that he had never in his life handled forged bills – but he couldn’t complain because he’d had a long run.
Still, the spell in prison and the treadmill and the cockchafer convinced him there were better ways to earn a living for a man with his knowledge and understanding of the stews of London. Over the years he’d turned that understanding and knowledge of the London underworld to better account. He was now an enforcer, a purveyor of information, a servant to all those who wanted information and could pay for it. A boon for a lawyer seeking information. I was one of them.
And that’s why I arranged to meet him. I had recognized specialist talents when I saw them, even then, as a young man. Though I have to admit it was Serjeant Wilkins who first introduced me to him.
‘It’s a delicate matter, Ben,’ I announced with an air of caution, after I had outlined the case in which I had been briefed. I leaned back in my chair in the quiet corner away from the bar in the main room of the Blue Posts and waited for Gully’s response.
Ben had the ability to swivel one eye alarmingly to make an important point. He made use of that unique facility at that moment. ‘You want me to find out about the man who sold Mr Wood the horse. You’re talking about Lewis Goodman. That’s a matter that’s not just delicate, it’s dangerous.’
‘Come now, you exaggerate,’ I replied in an airy tone. ‘All I’m asking is that you let me have whatever information you can dredge up on Goodman. I’ve heard of him, of course, as a result of his ownership of night houses, but rumours are vague. If you could place a few discreet questions here and there so I can have the background information that’ll be useful in the court hearing, I’d be much obliged.’
Gully frowned thoughtfully. ‘You want to attack him in court?’
‘No, no, certainly not! The likelihood is that the Solicitor General may attempt to impugn his reputation. I don’t want our side to be caught out by any information the Solicitor General may have up his sleeve.’
Ben Gully scratched at a recent scab on his shaven skull. A fracas down at Rotherhithe, I’d been led to believe. He shook his head in doubt. ‘I doubt there’ll be much for the Solicitor General to go on, apart from rumour. Lewis Goodman is a smart character, a slippery customer who keeps all his affairs at a distance. He don’t get caught with fingers in tills. He’s sharp, Mr James – too sharp for flats like the Solicitor General.’
‘But not too sharp for Ben Gully, hey?’ I encouraged him with a wink.
Gully brought his errant eye back under control and observed me sourly. ‘You can forget the flattery, Mr James. I’m telling you Lewis Goodman is dangerous. He’s got interests and connections in London at all levels and some of those connections can be violent. A lot of people owe him, and he’s a man who collects his debts … one way or another.’
‘You sound as if you’re afraid of him, Ben.’
Ben Gully hunched his powerful shoulders. He did not care for the raillery in my tone. He wrinkled his battered nose and looked down, as though inspecting his clothing. On this occasion he was dressed soberly, like an undistinguished clerk in the City. But I’d caught sight of him at Epsom occasionally, dressed as one of the swell mob. I’d also seen him recently emerged from the rookeries where he’d been in search of information: on such occasions he was almost unrecognizable from the neatly attired man in front of me now. He dressed the part for the job in hand. But he didn’t like the comment I’d made and he scowled. ‘I’m not afraid of anyone, Mr James, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know when to go careful, like.’
‘Then go careful by all means,’ I replied, sipping my brandy and water. ‘But find out what you can, so I can be prepared against eventualities. And then there’s the other end of the scale.’
‘Such as?’
‘What do you know about Lord George Bentinck? I don’t mean about his activities in Parliament – I mean his activities on the Turf.’
‘Depends what you want to know, Mr James,’ Ben Gully said, eyeing me carefully.
I wanted there to be no room for mistake. I leaned forward confidentially. ‘Look here, Ben. I’m pretty sure Bentinck is behind the attack on my client. He’s the man who’s stiffened Colonel Peel’s determination to bring the case. And he may be able to prove some sharp dealing went on. But he’s been involved with the Turf for years. And that can only mean that his own hands won’t be entirely clean!’ I snorted contemptuously. ‘He announces to the world that he intends to expose the corrupt practices and behaviour of those who frequent the races, but from time to time there have been rumours … For instance, I heard at one stage that he himself ran a number of horses under assumed names – Jones, Edwards, Bencliffe …’
‘Nothing illegal about that, Mr James. And I heard tell it was because he didn’t want his ancient father to know how deeply involved with racing he was. It’s out in the open now, anyway, that old story.’ Gully scratched at his broken nose thoughtfully. ‘There’s no mileage to be gained in starting that hare.’
‘But there are other … hares?’
Gully shrugged. ‘When a man regularly frequents the race track, or the Berkeley Club for roulette and chicken hazard, there’s always the likelihood of hares.’ His errant eye swivelled in my direction.
I smiled ruefully and winked, so that Gully knew the shot had gone home. He would be aware of my own recent losses at chicken hazard at Almack’s. I watched Gully carefully for a few moments. ‘As far as Lord George is concerned, I did hear a rumour, something … somewhere … about a horse called Crucifix, a year or so ago.’
Gully shrugged. ‘There was some kind of story going the rounds, as I recall.’
‘You could find out if Bentinck was up to something fishy. Something I could use to discredit him in court if he gets up and starts spouting about morality and honour….’
‘Aye, I could ask around. The jockeys, the trainers, the stable boys … they’ll know a few things, I don’t doubt.’ He eyed me warily. ‘But it won’t come cheap. It’ll cost, Mr James.’
‘Don’t it always?’ I smiled and finished my brandy and water. ‘And it usually costs more when there are tight time scales involved, ain’t that so?’
‘When do you want the information?’ Gully asked, nodding.
‘The hearing is set for mid-July.’
Gully frowned. ‘That is tight, Mr James.’
‘Too tight?’
‘Not at the right price.’
‘It’ll be paid, Ben, never worry,’ I replied, nodding, and rising to my feet.
Not that I’d use all of Bulstrode’s silver, of course. An appropriate commission would be deducted for myself. But, as I shouldered my way out of the bar of the Blue Posts and passed the grimy window, I looked back to the hunched shape of the man seated inside. Ben Gully had not moved from his position: he had remained seated in the quiet corner, staring moodily at his beer. He seemed constrained. And yet I knew he would normally take pleasure in bringing down one of the aristocracy. Lord George was a preening, arrogant man who’d made enemies enough. I guessed Ben Gully would enjoy slipping some of the mask aside to help expose Bentinck for what he was.
But it was clear he thought Lewis Goodman was another kettle of fish entirely. It would account for his gloomy expression as he stared at his beer. Ben glanced up, saw me staring at him through the window. His eyes fixed on mine and then, involuntarily, he shivered suddenly, as though someone had walked over his grave.
A presentiment.
Presentiments are wonderful things, my boy. I’ve had a few when I had certain cards in my hand. Trouble is, they rarely came off as you’d expect. So I shrugged this one off. All I could think of was the glittering career ahead of me if I could pin a prominent member of the Jockey Club Committee to the wall. But there you are: when a man’s riding young, and full of confidence, he don’t realize all the ditches there may be in front of him. And he’s likely to tumble in more than one of those damned ditches, believe me.
As I did.
I was talking to your mother about you last night, about some of the voyages you took down Valparaiso way, and she tells me you don’t like the climate here in England. Different from South America! I am forced to admit, here in 1880, it’s been wet and miserable of late, with the yellow fog, and the infernal stink from the Thames – they only did half the job, you know, after I’d protested in the House of Commons, in my days as Marylebone’s MP, about the state of the sewage in the river. Mind you, it was really bad then, in the 50s … in those days we had to wrap our lower faces in vinegar-soaked kerchiefs…. That was when I had built up a considerable reputation at the Old Bailey and was sought by all. … A long time ago.
But I digress.
The weather was different, the time I’m talking about. In fact, it was hot and dry that summer of 1844. The sunshine seemed perpetual. June saw no hint of rain. In between hearings at the Thames Police Court I used to enjoy the air in the Temple Gardens, away from the noise of the river traffic and the hurly burly of Fleet Street. But by the time the case came on in early July, I had no leisure for the Temple Gardens: the weather had still not broken and the avenues leading to Westminster Hall were crowded as people from all walks of life converged on the Exchequer Court, which was where Wood v Peel had been scheduled. To get to court I had to muscle my way past journalists and pie sellers, fruit stalls and print makers and all the other riff raff who shared Westminster Hall with the lawyers in those days. Inside the vast hall there was quite a hustling: Jockey Custance made an early appearance, paying at the door for entrance to a good seat, and an unobstructed view of the entertainment. Others of the sporting fraternity were shouldering their way about, various members of the swell mob had made an appearance, and then, a little later when the carriages arrived at the steps there were deposited numerous gentlemen of note, members of the Ten Thousand, with their ladies legitimate and illicit fluttering fans, pink with the excitement of the occasion.
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….
‘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.
‘Running Rein had been bred in …’
‘Ireland, sir, by Mr Sam McGuire, he it was who brought him across.’
‘And trained him?’
The boy nodded nervously. ‘At Malton, sir, the stables in Yorkshire, and he was then entered to run a few races.’
‘Before he was sold to Mr Wood.’
‘That’s correct, yer honour.’
‘What can you tell us about the age of the horse?’ Cockburn asked sharply.
‘I was allus led to believe, and been told by Mr Wood’s trainer Joe Bartle that Running Rein was a two year old.’
‘Have you ever heard of Maccabeus?’
‘No, sir.’
Cockburn sat down, satisfied and allowed the Solicitor General to rise. Fitzroy Kelly cross-examined the stable boy briefly and contemptuously, implying he was a hired man in the pay of a group of criminals led by Lewis Goodman. Then he sniffed out a weakness in our presentation.
‘And who is this man you mention … Joe Bartle?’
‘The trainer, sir.’
‘The person who averred that the horse was truly a two year old. But he has not been called to give evidence. So this comment of yours is hearsay. So where, pray, is Mr Bartle? Can he not speak for himself?’
There was a short silence. The boy giving evidence seemed frozen. Cockburn rose to his feet. He struggled to conceal his reluctance. ‘The witness is missing, my lord. We hope to call him later.’
‘To come up with the same weak farrago of lies, no doubt,’ the Solicitor General opined. ‘It is what is to be expected. Horses being entered under assumed names, missing witnesses, a stable boy called to attest to something he’s merely been told …’
‘Stinking fish!’ someone called out from the back of the courtroom, there was a burst of laughter and the Solicitor General waved an arm as though in agreement, and sat down.
Alexander Cockburn had no further questions of Marsh, and dismissed him. He faced the bench. ‘My lord, it is clear that the Solicitor General is of the opinion that Mr Wood, as plaintiff in this case, seeks only the support of those who may be described as unreliable witnesses or of the criminal fraternity. To show that this is not the case, we now wish to call to the witness box someone whom the Solicitor General can surely not suggest is of that ilk … I call Lord George Bentinck.’
There was a moment’s pause, a silence in the courtroom, and then the silence was broken by an outburst from the tiered seats, a stamping of feet and a storm of protest from the Solicitor General and Lord George Bentinck himself.
Empurpled, Fitzroy Kelly jumped to his feet. ‘You can’t do this! This is outrageous…! Lord George is our witness. He will be called to testify in support of Colonel Peel!’
There was shouting and laughter and a rolling about on the benches at the back of the courtroom, while Baron Alderson himself raised his stentorian voice to call for order and Lord Stradbroke’s female acquaintance leaned against his shoulder with her handkerchief to her face. The gavel pounding continued, the crowd roared, fights broke out and Fitzroy Kelly and Lord George Bentinck even ended up shouting at each other. I really quite enjoyed it all. The reporters were scribbling like mad. And we got our way. Even so, it was ten minutes before a grim faced Lord George Bentinck stood in the witness box, facing counsel.
As the noise subsided, Cockburn smiled foxily. ‘I need hardly ask permission of the court to treat Lord George as a hostile witness,’ he began,’ since he has already openly declared his support for Colonel Peel.’
‘Hostile as they come!’ Bentinck snapped angrily, hammering his stick on the floor of the witness box.
Cockburn inclined his narrow head gracefully. ‘Then I will leave the examination of the witness to my learned friend, Mr James.’
I had trained for it. You know, like a lot of other young men seeking a career at the Bar, I had gone first to a school in the Strand which prepared those who wished to appear on the stage. It was the recognized way forward if you sought a life at the Bar. Why? Well, you obtained skills that would stand you in good stead in the courtroom. You learned declamation; you were shown how to project your personality; use exaggeration of movement, the use of the hands, as well as the voice. You seem surprised … lawyers and actors training together? But that’s the reality of it all. In the court room you had to put on as much a performance as you would on the stage. Including lachrymosity. I’m proud to say I was as good a weeper as anyone at the Bar. And in addition, they taught you fencing. There was a lot of it on the stage in those days. Though I have to admit I was never lissom, even as a young man. But I learned the basics.
And fencing, it helped in dealing with a witness: you must treat witness examination almost like a duel, for it is much like using an epee or a sabre. Prick and cut and slash. But cross-examination, like examination of a hostile witness, now that is something else again. You can’t be trained to do it. You must have it in you. You know, would you believe that in my later career I was the most feared cross examiner in the Old Bailey? When I rose to my feet, strong men would pale; admirals would lower their colours; generals would bugle a hasty retreat. Tears would flow, copiously, at my inferences, doggedness, and cutting remarks. More than a few ladies fainted, from my questions rather than their stays. I once brought on a heart attack in a witness. It’s all about cutting and pricking, and then digging in your claws, you see: stripping flesh, if you like, tearing off strips of skin, slowly, deliberately, painfully. I’ve had grown men crying in front of me, even vomiting before they faced me in the box. Charlie Dickens might have held me up to ridicule later in A Tale of Two Cities, but I tell you, if I’d ever got him in the box over his rumoured relationship with his sister-in-law Georgina Hogarth, or that affair he had with his actress Nelly Ternan … well, the sparks would have flown.
Ah, well. Lost opportunities. A forensic duel with Dickens … it would have been a sensation, but it never happened.
But that day I stood up to face Lord George Bentinck in an expectant courtroom. Even in those early days I dressed carefully for the appearance before a judge. Everyone needs a certain air … I always affected white gloves in the courtroom: it was a little dandyism that I enjoyed, and I now showed them the mannerisms that were to make my name: I spent a moment fiddling with my white gloves, twitched my gown back over my hips and placed one hand on the bench in front of me. I glanced around the room, with a confident air, keeping them all waiting, even the scowling judge. It’s style that does it, you see … style.
‘Fraud, falsehood, selfishness and greed. Is that how you would describe what this hearing is about, Lord George?’
‘You’ve summed it up in a nutshell, as far as your side is concerned,’ Bentinck sneered.
I ignored the comment. ‘You’re very active at the Turf, are you not?’
‘I own a stud. I race them.’
‘How much did you win on your horse Mango, in the ’37 St Leger?’
Bentinck hesitated, taken aback. He blinked, then shrugged carelessly. ‘It’s well enough known. Fourteen thousand pounds.’
After the gasp died down in the courtroom, in the ensuing silence I asked, ‘How much did you win at this year’s Derby?’
‘Not as much as I had expected.’
‘Because Running Rein won and your horses came nowhere.’
‘Because a fraud was perpetrated on Colonel Peel. The horse was a ringer.’
‘And you had already protested this?’ I asked gently.
‘Of course.’
‘To the Stewards of Epsom. Was there an enquiry?’
As I’d hoped, Bentinck grew warm. ‘There was. But Baron le Tissier was misinformed from the outset. He took the word of Mr Wood as a gentleman, even though I told him that it was that damned Jew Levy Goodman who was behind the scenes on this one. I know what goes on in racing, I know all about the bribery and the corruption, the falsehoods and the nobbling, and there were plenty or rumours—’
‘So are you suggesting that Baron le Tissier, as chairman of the enquiry, was guilty of dishonest motives in reaching his decision?’
Bentinck glowered at me. ‘Of course not! I never said that!’
‘You were dissatisfied with the result of the enquiry,’ I suggested.
‘Of course. I knew that damned horse wasn’t the Malton colt—’
‘And it was you who pushed Colonel Peel into welshing on his bets after the race was run.’
‘I advised him, as a friend, that he had been subjected to a monstrous fraud, perpetrated by that evil Jew trickster Goodman—’
‘This had nothing to do with pique, or revenge because you had lost money on the race?’
‘Certainly not!’
‘So what was your motive?’
‘Friendship!’ Bentinck roared, empurpling, losing control of himself. ‘A desire to see justice!’
‘The avoidance of fraud?’
‘Of course!’
‘The avoidance of fraud and falsehood and selfish corrupt greed?’
‘Certainly!’
I set the trap. ‘So you see yourself as the Conscience of the Turf? You feel that you must press this case, to clean up the sport, to make an example of someone you regard as a rogue?’
Bentinck saw the jaws open in front of him. He hesitated, prevaricated. ‘Colonel Peel brought this action on his own account.’
I raised my voice, waved a white-gloved hand, appealing to the muttering crowd on the benches, fanning their mood. ‘But only under pressure from you, and others. Who are the others, may I ask? What sinister syndicate is there behind this disgraceful action against my client? How much have you all lost, in your secretive cabal? Could you not take your losses like men? Did you have to visit this foul calumny on my client simply out of pique at losing vast sums of money? You claim our witness Goodman is a rogue. But is not a man who welshes also a rogue?’
The stamping of feet started again. Bentinck’s face flamed with anger and his fingers gripped the edge of the witness box. His voice came out almost as a roar. ‘You impugn my honour, sir! When gentlemen place stakes on a race it is done in an honourable way! I resent your implications that we have grouped to attack an honest man. It is Goodman who is behind all this and I swear that I’ll get him booted off every race track in the country before I’ve finished with him!’
A crescendo of hissing and whistling arose behind him and the incensed baronet turned and shook his fist at the mob on the upper tiers. This only served to increase the noise and Baron Alderson hammered ineffectually at the table for almost a minute before the noise subsided. The judge’s eye was beady with malice when he turned it on me.
‘Mr James. I agreed you could treat the witness as hostile. But this badgering must stop. I trust you will stick to the issues that should be before us: the identity of the animal known as Running Rein!’ He glowered at me. ‘No more red herrings.’
The mention of red herrings had drawn catcalls from the mob. The noise fanned my own excitement. I knew the crowd was behind me, and there’d be headlines in The Times tomorrow. I was not now prepared to give way.
‘The fact is that a foul slander has been raised and spread about my client. His colt won the Derby fairly. Colonel Peel, out of pocket and out of temper, was persuaded by Lord George Bentinck and his syndicate, to welsh on the bets. Lord George points the finger at our witness Goodman, but I point the finger at Lord George. He holds himself up to be the saviour of the honour of the Turf, the cleanser of the Augean stable of vice and corruption and unfair dealing. But I now intend to prove that there is another man behind the mask. I intend to prove fraud, falsehood, selfishness, on the part of the man who is seeking to claim such behaviour on the part of my client, and my witness! More, I have it in my power to prove bribery—’
I tell you, my boy, there was a great outburst of cheering. The pandemonium in the courtroom was immense. The lady had fainted on Lord Stradbroke’s arm. Baron Alderson was purple in the face as he pounded at the bench in front of him. The ushers ran frantically about the tiered benches, ejecting struggling mechanics and battling supporters. Somewhere a woman screamed.
‘This courtroom will come to order!’ Baron Alderson thundered.
Gradually, the noise subsided. The judge was standing; he glared down at me. Flushed with premature triumph I held up my head, glared at him, jutted out my chin in defiance. I was still young then….
‘I hold you responsible for this outbreak, Mr James. You have now made statements which, outside a court of law, would be slanderous. That is for your conscience. It may well be that you could absolve yourself, by producing proofs concerning the matters you have raised. But not in this courtroom. The matters you are raising are nothing to do with this enquiry. I deem this name-calling has gone far enough. I do not intend wasting my time presiding over a bear garden.’
He took a deep breath; I could hear a ragged sound deep in his throat. Chronic dyspepsia was catching up on him. He belched angrily, and even at a distance I caught the odour of stale wine. He fixed me with a baleful eye. ‘It is my view that we need hear no more argument. No more witnesses, but one. The issue, it seems to me, is a simple one, and I so direct the jury to attend to it.’
Facile a dire, as they say.
I could see the smug look on Cockburn’s face. He knew I’d put a heavy bias into the case. But neither of us was prepared for what that old badger Alderson was about to do.
The judge leaned forward, cold and deliberate in his malice. ‘It is clear from the evidence so far that Colonel Peel has refused to pay debts honourably entered into. Mr Wood has demanded payment. The issue can be resolved by obtaining the answer to one question and one question only. How old is the animal in issue? If it is a colt of two years, judgement should be entered for Mr Wood. If it is a four year old – of whatever name – Colonel Peel is proved right, and the matter should be allowed to drop. So I now intend to adjourn this hearing. On Monday morning I will have the answer to the question. You will produce the animal in court for my inspection of its teeth, along with a court-appointed veterinary surgeon. The answer, of course, lies in the mouth!’
I sat there stunned. Cockburn’s own mouth dropped open. Beaming at his own malicious triumph Baron Alderson rose and swept from the room. Behind him he left a scene of complete disorder.