1

NOW I’M NOT going to pretend I was not getting a little desperate that day in June 1844.

You’re probably well aware that the ruling pleasures of England in those days were gambling, whoring and bare-knuckled boxing. I never indulged personally in the last of these … though I went along to enjoy the spectacle, of course. But I was certainly conversant with the others (I mean, few men at some period of their lives have not dealt in mercenary sex and the Temple was conveniently close to the West End for a man to take a young whore back to his chambers late at night) while the gambling clubs were a popular entertainment among young men of affluence and distinction, real or imagined.

During the previous week I’d had a bad run playing at rouge et noir, roly poly (roulette you’d call it nowadays) and chicken hazard at White’s Club. I could have gone to my father but I knew he would be unsympathetic if I asked him to help clear the gathering cloud of my debts: he’d just become Secondary of the City of London and was getting all high, mighty, moral and parsimonious. My maternal grandfather could have helped: he’d made a great deal of money in the brewery trade, and he was always fond of me, but I’d tapped the spigot on that cask a little too much lately. So when I met Lester Grenwood that evening in the dandy hell at Bennet Street corner in St James’s … you know, the gambling house that was run by a former clergyman who used ruined gamblers captained by the Black Dwarf as recruiting officers … I knew I had to be firm with him.

The Honourable Lester Grenwood was all smiles, standing there among a crowd of gamblers, with his black velvet collar and white corduroy breeches. He always did cut a handsome figure with his tall, athletic build, grey eyes sparkling affably. And when he caught sight of me he was affability itself.

‘James! It’s good to see you!’ But he must have seen the combative light in my own eye immediately because he forestalled me in my determination to have things out with him. He drew me apart from his companions who were gathered under the glittering chandelier that lit the green baize tables. He laid a hand on my arm, squeezed gently. ‘Now you know I’m demmed grateful for your signature on that paper … what was it? Two hundred?’

‘At three months, and it’s fallen due,’ I growled, ‘and I’m being dunned for it. Look, Grenwood, things are a bit tight at the moment and—’

‘It’s not a problem, James,’ he interrupted breezily, and flashing me a confident smile. ‘You shall have it from me the moment the old man stumps up with my allowance. And in the meanwhile, why don’t you do what I’m going to do? I’m in a tight corner like you, and in such situations it pays to be bold!’

It was then that he gave me the sure fire tip for the Derby. But no money.

‘Grenwood,’ I said firmly, ‘I need tin, not tips. And the money you owe me—’

He interrupted me immediately. ‘Short of the ready? That’s no problem!’ He put his arm about my shoulders and guided me across the room to introduce me to a lean, ancient, Dundreary-whiskered, shuffle-footed, dead-eyed moneylender of his acquaintance, persuaded me that my short-term debts could be resolved by a flutter on the nags and pressed me to finish a bottle of claret with him. By the end of the evening I concluded that it would not be Lester Grenwood, but Epsom, and Running Rein, that would be the solution to my financial embarrassment.

Epsom. I am aware that you’ve spent most of your young life at sea off the Americas so you probably don’t know what Derby Day was like half a century ago. It was a great national holiday. London emptied early: by mid-morning the dust would be rising high along the Downs as the hansom cabs swarmed out of town. There’d be crowded omnibuses, fast drags bustling along with elegant dandies and their lolling ladies, costermongers’ carts and post-chaises, barouches and phaetons, gigs, donkey carts and vans packed with raucous drunks and casks of beer.

On the course that day, as usual, blue-coated, top-hatted policemen were trying valiantly to control the gangs beyond the gypsy encampment, and the turf was crowded with spreading picnics while the Hill, the Stand and the Corner were already black with people when I arrived – among a mass of peers and pickpockets, tradesmen and turnkeys, parliamentarians, petermen and prostitutes.

I had placed my wagers on the nag Grenwood had recommended, but before I entered the Grand Stand to visit the parlours, or take refreshment in the Jockey Club I wandered around enjoying the scene: the betting ring, the groups of plush carriages laden with languid ladies, the ‘glove repetitions’ of the recent pugilistic encounter between Tom Sayers and Sam Martin – I’d lost a bundle on that sanguinary epic at Hampstead Heath too, believe me. There were Punch and Judy shows, performing monkeys, cartwheeling children, and footsore dogs prancing on hot tin cans, as they’d been trained to do by their spangle-dressed owners. In the overall hubbub Italian peasants, albeit with Whitechapel accents, mingled with German bands, painted clowns, red-haired villains playing the three-card trick and hunt the pea stalls that scattered as soon as a constable approached. It was all there: colour, noise, bustle, excitement. I loved it!

But I was waiting for the moment when the horses and their jockeys came dandling and cantering along the course. I make no pretence: my heart began to beat faster when the last odds were declared at the betting ring, and I had placed a few more wagers on Running Rein, and then I watched the churning and the shunting as the sweating animals twisted under tight reins. The jockeys shouted the usual obscenities at each other as they struggled for advantageous position – you seamen before the mast have no monopoly of choice language there, believe me; there was a plunging and shouldering as the crowd on the Hill bayed – and then the moment came, a rush, a trampling of excited hoofs and the great, ululating sound that burst from thousands of throats as the horses surged into motion.

The Sport of Kings, they call it, my boy, and so it is. You’ll not appreciate the roar, the kicking turf, the thunder of hoofs, the colours blurring into a vast swirl against the massed background of surging spectators unless you’ve actually experienced it….

I recall well that the favourite that day was Ugly Buck, who’d already won the Two Thousand Guineas. He got caught in the mêlée coming out of Tattenham, there seemed to be a certain amount of deliberate boring, and he veered wide, perhaps knocked out of the rhythm of his stride. The manoeuvre immediately cost him his chance and he faded against the rails, caught in the trailing bunch. It was Orlando who then took up the running, but he was pressed close: glistening flanks of horseflesh straining close together, whips rising and falling, until the Lysander colt was interfered with and came limping to a stop. Thereafter it was a group of five in close contention, with two other colts pressing hard, and men waved hats and gold-topped sticks and cheered lustily, ladies stood up in dangerously swaying carriages, and the thunder of the drumming hoofs was almost drowned by the roaring of the crowd.

You can guess that the criminal classes were quickly employed: pickpockets were active as usual, scurrying like marauding rats among the excited, heedless throng. The horses swept into the final straight: the favourite was now out of contention, and it was clear that the second favourite, Rattan, was also going to finish way down in the pack. Orlando still held the lead but Ionian was at his shoulder, and two lengths behind them, moving up with a powerful late run, was the colt Lester Grenwood had recommended to me.

Running Rein, trained at Malton in Yorkshire.

Two hundred yards to go and Orlando’s jockey was crouched low, his whip flailing metronomically; Ionian was fading and my throat was becoming hoarse as the unfancied Running Rein came edging inexorably to the shoulder of the straining leader. My financial salvation! If he came home I’d have a fistful of tin by the end of the day! For fifty yards they were neck and neck but Orlando was losing his rhythm, the Malton colt began to edge ahead and suddenly the crossing line was past, the race was all over, arms were raised, hats thrown wildly into the air, and pink-faced ladies sank back in their carriages, fanning themselves rapidly. As the last in the field cantered in disconsolately men and women were already turning away, back to the jugglers, the drink tents, the pies and the entertainment. Winners were seeking out the wooden signs and soapboxes where bookmakers had cried the odds. Champagne was uncorked – there was the odd shout of “Gone away!” as infuriated punters discovered a bookmaker had decamped into the crowd – and I made my triumphant way towards the leaden-roofed Grand Stand.

For the moment, once I was back in the City and got to see my bookmaker, I would be able to pay the moneylender, satisfy my other creditors and my financial problems would be eased.

I bypassed the first floor refreshment room and the police court where two magistrates were dealing out summary justice to the thimble-riggers and pickpockets the police officers had managed to collar. I made my way to the Jockey Club, where I knew I’d find Lester Grenwood: I had it in mind to toast him with a glass of fizz for his assistance.

The room was packed when I entered and there was a buzz of excited conversation in the throng: Ernest Wood, the Epsom corn merchant who owned Running Rein was there, surrounded by members clapping his back, seizing his hand to offer congratulations. I watched him as he stood there in his brown coat with gilt buttons, red-faced, perspiring with happiness, accepting the plaudits of the members. In a little while, after he had enjoyed the congratulatory comments he began to make his portly way down the steps into the luncheon room. It was at this point, as the crowd thinned, that I caught sight of Lester Grenwood. I waved, he responded and I made my way towards him. He was beaming, his lean, handsome features alight with pleasure.

Lester was always the dandy. On this occasion he was wearing a coat with a black velvet collar, yellow waistcoat and white cravat in which was tastefully displayed a diamond pin. When I came up to his side he waved his champagne glass, his broad grin extended, white teeth flashing under his muttonchop whiskers. He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Didn’t I tell you the nag was a cert? Wood’s owned that colt for three months only,’ he enthused. ‘He’s made the bargain of his life!’

‘A happy man,’ I agreed, glancing across the room to the owner of the losing horse. ‘Like you and me. Unlike Colonel Peel, I’d wager.’

The colonel, you should know, was brother to the Prime Minister. He was a cold fish: tall, angular-featured, pale, haughty of eye and always soberly dressed. At this moment he was displaying his unhappiness in the iciness of his glance. He’d entered two well-fancied horses in the Derby, Orlando and Ionian, but he had failed to gain the prize he had lusted for. Both nags had lost out in the final furlongs to the outsider backed by Grenwood and myself. Colonel Peel was clearly not enjoying the glass of champagne he held in his left hand, as others gathered around him in commiseration: that inveterate gossip Charles Greville was in the group, along with Lord George Bentinck, and other members of the Jockey Club committee.

‘Hullo,’ I heard Lester Grenwood murmur as I swilled my celebratory champagne. ‘Something’s up!’

The Chief Steward at Epsom in those days was Baron le Tissier. The baron was a thick-necked, stocky man in his late fifties. I followed the direction of Grenwood’s gesture and saw le Tissier shouldering his way across the room towards Colonel Peel. Lord George Bentinck met him and engaged him in lively conversation. In moments some kind of argument seemed to be developing, as they circled each other like snapping, disputatious mongrels. Le Tissier was shaking his heavy head in violent disagreement, and his jowl had reddened; Lord George was wagging his finger aggressively, and standing at the edge of the dispute Colonel Peel had raised his narrow, finely chiselled nose and was scowling about him in a patrician manner.

It was quite the wrong moment for Ernest Wood to swagger forward to present his compliments and indulge in a little peacock preening. But then he was only a provincial corn merchant and I suppose knew no better. Greville saw him coming and muttered something to his companions, Lord George Bentinck shot a cold, hostile glance towards the puffed-up, swaggering, triumphant merchant and, as Wood reached the group, Bentinck pointedly turned his back, stepped aside.

I made my excuses and left Lester Grenwood to edge forward on the trail of the corn merchant. I was impelled by curiosity, of course, but there was something else: a nervous coldness in my stomach, a forewarning of trouble. I always had an instinct about such things. I could always sniff out trouble. Not that I often acted upon such instincts, I must admit.

As Bentinck moved away, stiff-backed and stiff-legged, the group broke up, with Greville, then le Tissier and the others following him, leaving Wood to converse with Colonel Peel alone. Wood glanced after the retreating men and frowned: it was common gossip at Brooks’s that Bentinck had wagered a large sum on Orlando, but Bentinck – the self-proclaimed ‘dictator of the Turf’ – was not normally noted for being a bad loser. And he was a rich man who could afford to pay up if he had backed a loser. Unlike me. With growing anxiety, I edged even closer as the corn merchant turned towards the owner of Orlando.

Colonel Peel’s lidded eyes were cold, grey and expressionless. He was a taciturn, stiff-backed, lean sort of fellow at the best of times, normally controlled in his manner but known for occasional short-tempered outbursts in the House of Commons. Now his mouth was set in a grim line and he seemed to be holding back a simmering rage.

In his excited confidence Ernest Wood was grinning, fatly innocent in his lack of social niceties. Orlando had not been the favourite: the sporting newspapers had all reckoned Ugly Buck would win in a canter. The betting world had reacted accordingly, and the corn merchant’s horse had been a rank outsider – which meant a considerable windfall for Wood, the owner of the triumphant Running Rein. And more importantly, for me, when wagers came to be settled.

‘Well, Colonel,’ Wood said in an affable tone, puffing out his cheeks, tapping his hand lightly on Peel’s shoulder and smiling broadly, ‘a close run thing, as the Duke of Wellington might say! What was it, three-quarters of a length?’

Colonel Peel made a visible effort to reply in a civil tone. He inclined his narrow head, raised a supercilious eyebrow, brushed a hand across the shoulder of his sober, dark frock coat as though removing an irritating insect. ‘So I am informed, sir.’

‘Well, we can’t all be winners, hey?’ Wood asserted gaily. ‘And your Orlando put up a gallant fight, a gallant fight.’ He glanced around triumphantly and caught up in the triumph of the moment could not resist the jibe. ‘So will you be putting your nag out to stud, now?’

Someone nearby laughed, a ripple of amusement spread among the bustling crowd, and Colonel Peel’s sallow features began to flush. Lord George Bentinck was now near the steps leading from the room, his hand on Baron le Tissier’s arm. He turned back, gestured to Colonel Peel. His voice rang clearly above the general hubbub. ‘We should be moving off,’ he called out, ‘if we’re to get back to Coombe Hall in good time.’

Peel’s cold, baleful glance slipped past Ernest Wood. ‘You’ll excuse me – I must be leaving.’

The corn merchant waved a careless, happy hand. ‘Of course, Colonel. It’s not a problem. I can call on you later in the week.’

Peel hesitated. It seemed to me that something dark moved in his narrowing eyes, and his lean, saturnine features were tense. He raised his chin in distant contempt. ‘Settling up … I’m afraid it will take me a little time, Wood.’

The owner of the Derby winner was grandiosely unconcerned. After all, he was dealing with the Prime Minister’s brother, and they were all gentlemen together here. There was no cause for anxiety. He smiled, waved his hand in a gesture of generous acceptance. ‘Of course, Colonel. Take your time. It’s of no consequence. I’ll call in a few days and we can discuss matters.’

There was a great deal of money at stake but for the moment Ernest Wood was in no hurry: he was enjoying his triumph. But the cold feeling in my stomach grew as I watched the figure of Colonel Peel cross the room, rejoining the sour-featured Bentinck, the Chief Steward and the committee members of the Jockey Club. Bentinck looked back from the tight little group, glared at the exultant Ernest Wood and said something to Colonel Peel. The owner of Orlando smiled grimly. Then they were gone.

A half-inebriated young buck at the edge of the crowd called out a toast.

‘To Running Rein!’

Champagne glasses were raised, renewed cheering broke out, but as I watched the Jockey Club committee members leave in a surly group I had an icy foreboding of disaster. I hesitated, then gave way to my anxieties. I stepped forward, reached the corn merchant, touched his elbow. He turned, grinned at me. He did not know me: in those days I was merely a struggling, impecunious almost unknown barrister in his late twenties. Well, early thirties, anyway. And if I then went and broke the rules that day, well, you must understand it was because of the coldness in my gut. And the money I still hoped to collect.

You see, the rules of the Temple were clear: barristers should not directly approach members of the public, touting for business. But, well, there you are….

‘Mr Wood … may I present my card, sir?’

2

In parts of the city on a Sunday, London could be likened to a sponge; it sucked in straggling droves of sheep, oxen and pigs, cackling geese and hens, while wagons crammed with calves and lambs were followed into the Uxbridge Road by cattle-jobbers, graziers and pig-fatteners, a swelling of life animal and human all heading for the holding pound at Paddington. Knackers’ drags and insistent beggars mingled with a tide of Bible-thumpers distributing unwanted religious tracts, ragged sellers of journals, purveyors of scandal sheets, and producers of hastily printed pamphlets containing explicit bloody accounts of the latest scaffold confession, while rabble-rousers surged about, noisily yelling among the boisterous, thrusting crowd of low humanity.

But elsewhere in the city it was different. In social terms, I tell you, my boy, a wet Sunday in London has nothing less than the aspect of a vast, ordered graveyard; in Mayfair and Belgravia nothing seemed to move in those days in the damp, drizzling streets. That particular Sunday in 1844, I kept close in my chambers most of the day and surveyed my prospects, suddenly gloomy again. The fact is, it’s well said that there is not a harder life than that of a barrister in large practice – except, I emphasize, that of a barrister in small practice.

Particularly if he’s been living well beyond his means by frequenting the clubs and night houses. And that was my situation at that time. Moreover, the bad news I’d been half expecting had just broken and was the talk of the Town: Colonel Peel was refusing to honour his wagers and, with the backing of influential members of the Jockey Committee, was claiming that Running Rein was a ringer. That meant all bets were off, and the money I’d borrowed to lay on Running Rein would have to be repaid along with everything else I owed.

I was distraught. You see, expecting the windfall from the Derby win, well, what I’d borrowed, I’d already spent on the tables at Almack’s.

So there it was. I sat in my dreary chambers in front of a meagre coal fire and considered my situation. It was not a promising one. In 1844 I was already turned thirty years of age but making little by way of practice fees at the Thatched House Tavern and the Marylebone Police Court. I was under considerable financial obligations to various rascally, hard-hearted moneylenders and now I’d learned that, as I had feared, Colonel Peel was disputing the running of the Derby, with the consequence that bets were off. It was clear to me that I’d be hard put to it to dun my creditors, and keep the importunate villains at bay.

The result of the Derby was like a sore boil in my armpit. It was Lester Grenwood who had led me to his moneylender acquaintance, helped me lay on some of the borrowed money I’d put on Running Rein, his so-called sure-fire tip, and there was also the question of the £200 he’d borrowed from me previously, and never paid back. It was urgent I saw him, if only to recover that money.

And perhaps a little bit more to help me in clearing at least some of my debts. I mean, if you can’t borrow from friends, who should you borrow from?

So, now that the news of Colonel Peel’s default had been confirmed, miserable, and never averse to avoiding late hours poring over Blackstone’s Commentaries, that gloomy evening I finished my brandy and water, slung an old roquelaire cloak over my shoulders and made my way out of my chambers.

There were various options open to me: Evans’s (also known as the Caves of Harmony), the Albert Saloon, and other night houses available for carousing and song-singing but I decided against them. The Cider Cellars, I thought to myself: the Cider Cellars, that’s where I’ll find some congenial company tonight. And with luck, Lester Grenwood among them.

I hailed a hansom cab in Fleet Street; we rattled along the damp, foggy cobbled streets until the driver deposited me near the stage door of the Adelphi in Maiden Lane. The gaslights were still blazing outside the main entrance to the theatre, holding at bay the thin, yellow, whispery mist that scraped at your lungs, and there was the usual scattering of weary whores wandering up and down the road, footsore and limping, in various degrees of faded finery. That’s the worst thing about their profession, I’ve often heard them claim: it’s hard on the feet.

I’d always thought it’d be the bedsores.

‘Hey, chuck, you want a quick one?’

I’ve no doubt that, as a sea-going lad, you’ll know the alley-cats who throng the bordellos of the seaports well: it’s a damned sight worse in Maiden Lane than Marseilles, I assure you, my boy. They emerged with the fading of the afternoon light: gaudy and exhausted, gay and weary, painted, faded, and brazen, thronging the street, offering their wares to all.

I ignored the lascivious ladies of the night on this occasion, of course. I was on a mission.

The house next door to the Adelphi, the Cider Cellars, was well known in those days, throughout the city and beyond: it drew a considerable number of tradesmen and farmers up from the country who would be seen there, involving themselves in the singing and consuming large quantities of made dishes – a roast, a bird, a plate of cheese all washed down with numerous pints of beer or porter, or glasses of gin or brandy. But it was not their exclusive preserve: the clientele was wide-ranging. It included rakish young medical students and braying heirs to family fortunes, young university layabouts, guardsmen, hussars, and florid bucks from the clubs of St James’s. I’d seen Thackeray there often enough, and young Tony Trollope was sometimes ambling about, while Dickens occasionally poked his inquisitive nose in. I must tell you about Charlie Dickens some time, and the way he lampooned me so unfairly in A Tale of Two Cities….

Anyway, the Cider Cellars was also a haunt of lawyers as well as literary men, along with politicians and judges and smartly attired members of the swell mob. When I shouldered my way into the crowded room that evening I was met with the familiar gusty rush of warm, fetid air, the smell of beer and wine and cigar smoke, and my ears were assailed by a roaring chorus of the favourite bawdy ballad of the day. You might have heard it yourself, along the waterfronts …

I had hardly entered the crowded room when a heavy hand clamped on my shoulder and a beery breath engulfed me. ‘Edwin James, my friend, is it not a matter for public amazement that they should all still be singing about a murderous chimney sweep whom we rightly sent to the gallows from the Old Bailey last year?’

I turned in the crush of cheering, singing bodies to see a face I knew: Charlie Wilkins, stocky, pot-bellied, with muscular arms, wild staring eyes and generous mutton-chop whiskers. His waistcoat bulged uncomfortably under his dark coat, showing an expanse of sweat-stained shirt, and I suspected he had come straight to the Cider Cellars from a late sitting of the court. His pudgy fingers dug into my neck. ‘Come on, James, I’ve got a table in the corner – been out to relieve myself and the buggers had better have kept me seat till my return.’

Reluctantly, I allowed himself to be dragged by Serjeant Wilkins through the crowd, half-deafened by the Sam Small chorus. I glanced back to see the man leading the singing: he was dressed in a loose, dirty smock and seated across a rickety chair, his face made up to a ghastly prison pallor with white chalk and rouged lips, and dark-ringed eyes.

He was waving his arms violently as he shouted out the refrain, an empty pint pot in his hand, but I felt there was something familiar about him. Then he was lost to sight as I was pulled across to a table near the stairs and room was made for me and Wilkins by the three men seated there.

I knew them vaguely: they were undistinguished members of the Bar, middle-aged, relatively unsuccessful but regular denizens of the West End entertainment palaces. They were laughing loudly, howling with drunken laughter, beating the table with their fists as the final words of Sam Small crashed out in a last triumphant chorus. There was a bout of wild cheering and the crowd began to break up, some fighting over tables, others starting to drift towards the doors, many calling for more service. In the milling pandemonium several chairs were overturned and one of the waiters stood on a table and appealed in a loud voice for order.

The cry was taken up in mockery by the drunken revellers: ‘Or-dar! Or-dar!’ until it took on a rhythmic, thunderous beat. The barristers whom I had joined began to thump their pint pots on the table in unison, and the noise was deafening. Wilkins caught my still sober, disapproving eye. He winked, nodded towards another table that had just been vacated, located near the stairs which led to above-stairs accommodation occasionally frequented by clients and their companions. He led me away from his erstwhile company. ‘I’m not as young as I used to be,’ Wilkins remarked, panting and shaking his head as he lowered himself onto the bench seat.

‘You never were,’ I replied.

You wouldn’t know about Charlie Wilkins, my boy. He was reckoned to be the illegitimate son of that holier-than-thou, do-gooding hypocrite Lord Shaftesbury. In his youth Charlie’d earned a living for a while as a commercial traveller, sang and told bawdy jokes in alehouses, was once a member of a group of strolling players, even did a stint in a circus as a clown – in other words had just the right training for a successful career at the Bar.

The judges liked him for his dramatic gestures and declamations. Clients liked him for his enthusiastic championing of their causes, successful or not. They felt they got a handsome return for their money. I’d learned a lot from watching his histrionics in the courtroom.

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

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

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

‘Loud enough for sure,’ I replied.

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

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

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

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

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

‘An acquaintance,’ I admitted.

‘Wealthy?’

‘His father is. Lord Havermere.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘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 obsequioustone. 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.

‘This is not going to be an easy matter to handle,’ Cockburn announced in his thin, squeaky tones, tapping the brief on the desk in front of him. He took a delicate pinch of snuff, brushing some of the grains from the front of his coat as a stray shaft of sunlight gleamed in his thinning, reddish hair. ‘On the one hand, we have an Epsom corn merchant – our client, Mr Wood. On the other hand, formidable opposition: a Member of Parliament and brother to the Prime Minister….’

‘Ranged with Lord George Bentinck, Baron le Tissier, and the worthies of the Jockey Club itself,’ I made so bold as to add. ‘The considerable weight of the Establishment.’

Cockburn eyed me warily, weighing me up with a suspicious lifting of an eyebrow but Bulstrode was clearly excited at the prospect of battle. He intervened eagerly. ‘There is a point in our favour, however. I understand there had already been a degree of internal dissension prior to the running of the Derby itself. Baron le Tissier and Lord George have been at odds. There were arguments about Running Rein before the race was run. This dispute between Colonel Peel and Mr Wood has been the culmination of a long established dispute involving other parties and it seems to me that our client Mr Wood might be able to take advantage of this situation….’ His voice tailed away as he caught the hostile gleam in Cockburn’s eye. He licked his lips nervously. ‘I would of course defer to the consideration of the strategy you would wish to employ….’

‘Strategy,’ Cockburn humphed, and tapped a doubtful finger on the pink-stringed brief in front of him. ‘It will be all important if we are to sway the jury.’ He hesitated, eyed me once more in a speculative fashion. He knew I was a mere junior, not yet fully blooded. ‘What thoughts do you have on the matter, James?’

I hesitated, aware of the self-important figure of Bulstrode beside me. It was there the purse-strings lay, not with Cockburn. And the solicitor wanted a battle. I affected an air of sagacity. ‘I believe the strategy should be a bold one. The dissension Mr Bulstrode has identified is a weakness in their defence: mention of their disagreement needs to be brought out into the open; the dispute between Lord George and Baron le Tissier needs to be highlighted, because it tends to undermine Colonel Peel’s case. We need also to obtain more information on the betting syndicate that is behind the whole thing. There are shadowy figures behind the scenes, putting pressure on Peel to raise this issue in court.’

Bulstrode shivered with excitement. Cockburn smiled drily: he clearly felt my description of the situation would be more in keeping for the courtroom argument than a sober discussion here in chambers. But I knew it was important that Bulstrode should be hooked.

‘Shadowy figures, yes,’ the solicitor murmured sagely, making an eager note in his pocketbook. ‘I would agree, we would be well advised to attack those who are working behind Colonel Peel.’

Cockburn frowned. He knew it would be a dangerous sea to venture upon. His slim fingers touched his freckled cheek: he had a passion for sailing and had indulged himself over the weekend in his yacht, the Zouave. His skin burned easily, and there was an angry redness about his forehead despite the precautions he had taken with a wide brimmed hat. Somewhat testily, he said, ‘Just so … but how are we to bring these issues out? Mr Wood can of course testify to the original dispute between himself and Lord George Bentinck over the age of the horse. After all, that is what this case is all about, in essence.’

Bulstrode nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, but it seems Lord George earlier lodged an objection before the Jockey Club, claiming that Running Rein was not eligible for the Derby. At the ensuing hearing the Chief Steward, Baron le Tissier, refused to countenance the objection.’

‘We’ll need to bring that out,’ I suggested. ‘And that means we must put Lord George and the baron on the witness stand.’

Cockburn’s narrow little eyes shifted to me, as he noted the determination in my tones. ‘That would be a strategy of high risk,’ he suggested.

‘But necessary,’ I insisted boldly. Bulstrode’s eyes gleamed.

Cockburn was doubtful. ‘We need to be careful. Lord George Bentinck and Baron le Tissier are supporters of Colonel Peel; if we call them, we’d be in danger of giving them a platform on which they could launch an attack on Mr Wood’s case.’

‘The Solicitor General will surely call Lord George to give support to Colonel Peel,’ I suggested. ‘We’re going to have to deal with him on the witness stand in any event.’

Cockburn opened the snuff box on the desk in front of him, tipped some snuff on the back of his hand, indulged himself and sneezed, then took out his pocket handkerchief. He listened as I continued, ‘The Solicitor General won’t want to call Baron le Tissier, if there really was a dispute between the two of them about Running Rein, before the running of the Derby.’

Cockburn nodded slowly. ‘You’re thinking we could quickly establish both Bentinck and Baron le Tissier as hostile witnesses—’

‘And treat them accordingly,’ I added.

Cockburn smiled thinly. He could see I would want to get my forensic teeth into two hostile witnesses and perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to give me the opportunity. Slowly, he nodded. ‘Were you to be addressing the jury, how would you describe the nub of the case, James?’

‘A conspiracy by senior members of the Jockey Club, against an honest corn merchant, to deny him his rightful winnings after a fairly run race.’

Bulstrode almost bounced in his chair and beamed. He truly was in the presence of Great Men. ‘I’ll make sure the necessary papers are served as soon as possible.’

I smiled. ‘I think we should also attack Lord George’s own history, as far as the Turf is concerned.’

Cockburn’s glance was cool and calculating. ‘You think we can raise some … ah … interesting issues here?’

‘I’ve heard a number of rumours over recent years. There are people I can talk to,’ I said confidently, while Bulstrode wriggled in delight.

Cockburn pursed his lips. Like me, he had a reputation as a sporting man. He was himself well enough aware of the information that could be picked up in the clubs as well as at the racecourse and the prize ring, although of late Cockburn himself had tended to somewhat distance himself from such obvious pleasures. Women and sailing, yes, but the gaming tables and the night houses were now a distant distraction for him ‘You’re suggesting we should be trying to muddy the waters.’

‘It will serve our purpose.’

‘Hmm.’ Cockburn frowned. ‘Lord George Bentinck’s reputation … but we also have a problem of reputation to confront us.’

‘Why so?’ Bulstrode pricked up his ears. ‘Mr Wood is a man of propriety, and recognized integrity who is only seeking to make Colonel Peel honour a debt arising from the winning of the Derby.’

‘Mr Wood has owned Running Rein for a short period of time only,’ Cockburn countered coldly.

‘I don’t see that this is a matter of significance—’

‘The significance lies in the identity of the gentleman from whom Mr Wood obtained the animal,’ Cockburn interrupted.

Bulstrode consulted his notes. ‘A Mr Lewis Goodman,’ he said after a few moments. ‘I have no information—’

Cockburn cocked a quizzical eyebrow and turned to me. There was a gleam of malice in his eyes. He had clearly heard more than a few rumours about me. ‘I imagine you will know him, James.’

There were few who frequented the West End cigar divans who had not heard of Lewis Goodman. I hesitated. ‘I’ve heard he has certain … interests in premises of entertainment.’

‘You might call them that,’ Cockburn said drily. ‘One or two clubs off St James’s. He’s a frequenter of the race track and a provider of doubtful … entertainments. This is the man from whom our corn merchant bought his horse. The other side will certainly want the jury to take a view of Mr Lewis Goodman.’

‘We’ll have to call him,’ I stated. ‘Mr Wood will give evidence as to the purchase, of course, but the history of the horse can be provided only by Goodman.’

‘And back we return to high risk strategy.’ Cockburn sighed. ‘Our witness Mr Goodman will, I’m certain, prove to be a smooth, efficient and well-versed provider of evidence. He will speak with confidence and I’ve no doubt he’ll stand up well to the Solicitor General’s attack in cross-examination. But will the jury believe him?’

‘If the man tells the truth—’ Bulstrode began to bluster. I stared at him. His innocence was appalling.

Cockburn cut him short. ‘The Solicitor General will raise issues about Goodman’s background which could be damaging to Wood’s case. It’ll be up to us to attempt to limit that damage. Consequently, we will need to have the supporting evidence of others – grooms, stable boys, trainers … not the most reliable, or highly regarded people in society, but knowledgeable.’ He fixed the solicitor with a steely glance. ‘You will apply to Mr Wood for names, Mr Bulstrode?’

‘Certainly, Mr Cockburn,’ Bulstrode replied, hurriedly making notes.

Cockburn smiled. A vain man of short stature and even shorter temper, he liked to see how his personality could cow others. ‘Well, gentlemen, I think that will do for now. We will require another conference before trial, of course, and if any major issues arise in the meanwhile, I’m sure Mr Bulstrode will keep us both informed.’ Cockburn paused, fixed his eyes on me. ‘Perhaps you would work closely with Mr Bulstrode on this matter, James.’

I was under no illusions. This case would be a sensation. The Press would be there in force. But it had shaky foundations as far as we were concerned. That was the sole reason why the shifty Cockburn was putting me in the driving seat. Cockburn would want the praise, if all went well, and he would get it as senior counsel. But if the case collapsed Cockburn would certainly not want to bear the responsibility. In his head, he was already preparing his ground. I had the feeling he might give me my head, while he took the fattest fees. But I was not averse to the challenge: it could make my reputation.

Bulstrode and I left the Great Man taking snuff in his chambers.

On the narrow, winding staircase Bulstrode paused, smiled broadly, nodded enthusiastically to me. ‘Mr Cockburn, and of course yourself, sir, should give the Solicitor General a run for his money.’

‘Ah, one should not underestimate the opposition,’ I replied, injecting a note of doubt into my tone.

‘I approve of your strategy for attacking the Jockey Club itself. It’s high time these people—’

‘It’s likely to be expensive, Mr Bulstrode,’ I said shortly. The thought that followed made me hesitate, but I took the step nevertheless.

It was to be a fatal one, I may tell you. But Bulstrode was an innocent, and I had outstanding debts, and when one is in the hands of moneylenders … At any rate, I took the decision.

At the foot of the staircase I stopped, preventing the solicitor stepping out into the shadowed courtyard that led down towards the Temple gardens. I held his glance, with a conspiratorial frown. ‘I think there’s a great deal of work to be done if Mr Wood is to be successful. Cockburn has already suggested that you must get up a list of names of witnesses who can support Wood and Goodman. But this is a matter in which I could possibly provide some assistance.’

Bulstrode gulped. ‘How so, Mr James?’

I linked my arm through the solicitor’s and gently steered him into the courtyard. Surprised, for it was unusual for barristers to demonstrate such a friendly bearing towards the men who briefed them, Bulstrode allowed himself to be towed along through the sun-dappled gardens, beaming with pleasure at this intimacy.

‘Though I’m a member of the Bar,’ I announced cheerfully, ‘I enjoy a life outside the Temple.’ I winked confidentially at Bulstrode, one man of the world to another. ‘I enjoy the theatre, I attend Epsom, the prize ring notes my presence from time to time – and a growing Old Bailey practice brings me into contact with all manner of unusual and interesting persons … from all walks of life, if you take my meaning.’

Bulstrode glanced around him, leaned forward to whisper as though we were in danger of being overheard. ‘You think you might be able to find out … useful information?’

‘At all relevant levels of society,’ I stated solemnly. ‘But it takes a little time … and not a little tin.’

Bulstrode hesitated. ‘Your brief fee—’

‘Is for my work, of course, in court and outside it. But time presses, and a brief fee usually arrives late in the day … sometimes many months later from some solicitors of my acquaintance, though I feel sure that you, Bulstrode—’

‘Oh, I assure you, Mr James,’ the solicitor interrupted hastily, scrabbling at the gilt buttons on his coat, ‘I am always prompt in my payments of brief fees!’

‘I don’t doubt it, Bulstrode.’ We stood at the entrance to the Temple Gardens overlooking the noisy river, where Mr Bazalgette’s Embankment now extends. We looked out over the river where the wherries and steamers plied their trade; pigeons coo-ed in the trees of the Temple gardens and a hansom cab clattered its way beyond the trees that protected the gravelled walks. There was the perfumed hint of roses in the air. I breathed deeply, aware that my bait was being taken. ‘However, there are certain people I could contact, engage to undertake further investigations….’

There was a light grunting sound in Mr Bulstrode’s chest as he gazed about him, considering my words: I guessed he was excited at the hint of using the services of raffish members of the London underworld. But this was an important case; it could help the firm of Bulstrode and Bulstrode significantly. He licked his lips and swallowed hard. ‘If you think an approach to … certain persons might be advantageous and supportive of Mr Wood’s case….’

‘I feel sure it would,’ I said gently, admiring with detached approval the shady walks of the Temple garden.

‘It’s possible I could arrange for a certain advance of funds, Mr James. I could talk to the clerk in your chambers.’

I nodded soberly, restraining the relief in my voice. ‘I think that the expenditure would be worthwhile. But,’ I added, my voice dropping a tone as I leaned towards the Exeter solicitor with a confidential air, ‘I don’t think a conversation with my clerk would be advisable. What we are discussing here is a little … outside the usual arrangements. The people I would be dealing with … well, perhaps I should say no more. However, payments will be necessary – in advance – and I would suggest the best way forward would be the creation of a … ah … small floating fund from which drawings could be made. Fully receipted, of course.’

Bulstrode’s lips were dry but the suggestion excited him: it gave him a daredevil feeling that was new to him – an opportunity to step beyond the constraining boundaries of the provincial city within which he normally worked, and to edge into the wider world with which I was obviously very familiar. He nodded, swallowing hard. ‘I’m sure an accommodation can be arrived at, Mr James.’

I tapped Bulstrode on the shoulder, almost affectionately. ‘The sooner the better, then, so we can move into play. I will take my leave from you now … but I will be hearing from you?’

‘At the earliest opportunity, Mr James.’

The solicitor bobbed his head, tugged at his gilt-buttoned waistcoat and proceeded up the lane towards the entrance into Fleet Street where he would be able to hail a cab. I watched his plump, self-important figure waddling away for a few moments, satisfied with myself. I sighed with relief. I could foresee I was now about to get rid of some burdensome financial obligations. I turned, humming a tune and made my way back to my chambers in the Inner Temple.

It was time to send a messenger to Ben Gully.