1

YOU WON’T HAVE known my grandfather, naturally. He was long since dead, before I even met your mother in New York, after the collapse of my first marriage.

My maternal grandfather. Harvey Christian Combe. An eminent man in the City, a member of Common Council, a well known personality in his day. Like his political friend Charles James Fox, he had been a great gambler. He’d made his living as a brewer and accumulated a large fortune. I think it was the prospect of succeeding to the old man’s wealth that had led my father to marry my mother: I can’t think of any other reason that might have persuaded him.

But marry her he did, and it stood to reason that when I was born I became a favourite of the old man. His daughter looked like him; I looked like my mother. We could all three have been pugilists. It was natural he would lean towards me: his look-alike.

So before we reconvened at the Exchequer Court on Monday it was only sensible that I spent the weekend down at Combe Park, hoping to tap the old man – again – for some financial assistance. But he’d heard rumours about my reckless gambling and was getting niggardly about the support he was called for. He gave me a lecture instead – as though I didn’t get enough of those from my father.

I wouldn’t have minded so much if my grandfather hadn’t been so well-known as a whist player, and had bet with the most extravagant in society, in his younger days.

However, my Sunday morning visit was unsuccessful and I came away empty-handed. So you’ll understand that I was more or less forced to go along to Hampstead Heath that Sunday afternoon, to see if I could make up for my dire financial state by placing a few perspicacious bets.

The occasion was a battle between two of the better-known fist men of the day … all but forgotten now, of course. One was a rather portly gentleman by the name of Porky Clark. Unsurprisingly, he’d once been a butcher. His opponent was Sam Martin, an ex-porter from Hythe who was suspected of eating raw meat before a fight to get used to the taste of blood – usually his own. His speciality was taking a beating for twenty rounds before nailing his opponent when the man got tired of the sport of hammering seven bells out of him.

In those days, what, forty years ago, pugilism depended very largely on aristocratic support, you understand. Prize fights were arranged by noble patrons who raised funds for the stakes and supported favourite boxers during training. Lord George Bentinck, naturally enough, was a member of the Pugilists Club that had been set up in 1814. The club established codes of conduct, hired gangs to keep order at the ropes and tried to keep purses modest, though the sums were bolstered by side stakes. It was where I was hoping to pick up some cash: supplementary stakes were arranged by the Fancy at the Castle Tavern and it was towards that establishment that I first directed my steps after leaving my grandfather: I placed a wager with the little available money I had among the usual company of aristocrats who were there rubbing shoulders with tradesmen, peers and pickpockets. I didn’t see Lord George there: nor did I have any wish to see him. But I was pretty sure he’d be at the Heath.

There was quite a crowd there, of course: Sunday afternoons on the Heath were a fixture during the summer months for the pugilistic fraternity. The police knew all about it of course and were supposed to intervene in the illegal pursuit, but the crowds were too big for their interference: they stayed on a little knoll some distance off, waiting for the inevitable riot that would accompany the almost guaranteed disputatious verdict.

Proceedings had already commenced within the ring when I arrived and I was gladly surprised to see that one of the two men sparring was none other than my acquaintance Lester Grenwood … who still owed me money against that accursed bill. Amateurs such as he often put on a show before the main event of the afternoon and Grenwood fancied himself with his fists but I knew him well enough to be aware that once his nose got bloodied, he’d retire. In the hope of grabbing a little quick return I placed a quick bet on his opponent, but got it wrong again. Within the first few minutes, after a bit of wary circling, Grenwood landed a quick one-two, struck a blow in his opponent’s kidneys and ended up with a fierce knee in the groin which brought water to everyone’s eyes. No Queensberry nonsense in these amateur bouts those days, you know.

The crowd howled loudly – though not as loud as Lester’s opponent writhing on the ground and clutching at his precious jewels. It was clear the fight was over. I was still making a hasty agreement with my creditor by way of a piece of paper, when Lester Grenwood came through the throng with a towel around his neck and a broad smile on his face. He had his arm around the shoulders of his Hussar friend Crosier Hilliard. As he was wiping the sweat from his handsome features with the scruffy-looking towel he caught sight of me. He raised a triumphant hand.

‘James! How about that, then! Did you see that right of mine? And that trick with the knee?’

Crosier Hilliard whooped. ‘Hope you had your money on the right man, James!’

‘If not the right horse,’ Grenwood shouted gleefully. ‘See you got nailed in court too, the other day, in the Running Rein business,’ he crowed. ‘The papers are full of it! Produce the nag, hey? Does Alderson really expect that to happen? Draggin’ a horse into the courtroom? It’s got all London by the heels!’

Slightly annoyed, as well as to some extent gratified, I countered, ‘And how’s that little dollymop of yours? She got you by the heels yet?’

He was too delighted with his pugilistic success to be offended. ‘Sweet Harriet, you mean? She’ll have long since gone back to her countryside pursuits. Talking of which, James, Hilliard and I have got a little party going on tonight down at Swanscombe and if you want to join in, stop being such a dull dog and—’

‘I’ve got the hearing Monday morning,’ I cut in, shaking my head dolefully. ‘Got preparations to undertake. But talking of Running Rein, what with the sum you owe me and those bets you laid off for me—’

‘Ha, don’t worry old friend. Keep fleet of foot and they won’t catch up with you for a week or so. Besides, the tin you’ll get from this Running Rein brief of yours should keep them wolves from the door, hey?’ He hugged Hilliard, and pulled at the man’s whiskers. ‘Away then, Crosier, let’s to the fleshpots!’

I put out a hand to detain him but, flushed in the face, he was being dragged away by Hilliard in the midst of a congratulatory group of successful punters, eager to express their appreciation and admiration for him in a local tavern. Disgruntled, I made my way around the fringe of the restless crowd, waiting for the main event of the afternoon. I could see Porky Clark limbering up chewing on a half-cooked steak and glugging a bottle of beer, all white, hairy, scarred flesh and chunky jowls. His opponent Sam Martin was across the other side of the rope barrier, stripping off: he was taller, almost ten years younger than Porky, carried less fat, and had the scarred, bristle-featured look of a man who intended bloody business. Porky was going to be no match for him that day.

I watched the two men as they completed their preparations and then undertook another judicious bet, on credit, of course. And received some more wigging from various acquaintances on the Running Rein business. After which I edged my way into the crowd, shouldered my way close to the ropes, to see how Porky shaped up to Sam Martin.

You know, I always regarded myself as an acknowledged expert on horseflesh, bare-knuckle fighters, and women. Mind you, I don’t know that I ever made any money on a pugilistic encounter. Not even when I was acting as manager of John C. Heenan, when he was champion of the world. You didn’t know about that stage in my career? I’ll get around to telling you about it, in due time. But Heenan, I should have made some tin out of him, particularly when I came back from New York with him in tow, fixed him the challenge fight of the century with Tom Sayers in Ireland, only for Heenan to pull out at the last moment. To get married, by all that’s holy!. But then, to be fair, what a woman! It’s Adah Mencken I’m talking about. The sensation of the New York and European stage. … Now I lost money on her too: she had cost me the security of my first marriage … but I’m digressing again. I’ll tell you about that later.

To put it shortly, you need to know that it was age, if not beauty, that did for Sam Martin that day on Hampstead Heath. At least, that’s what the sporting press said next day. The fact is Sam Martin didn’t seem up to his usual cunning tactics: he took the blows but he seemed slow, sluggish, not as aggressive as he was reputed to be. There looked to be no weight in his slugging hand; his legs seemed rubbery from the start and there was a vacant glare in his eyes that made it seem as though he was somewhere else than the Heath. And there was no sign of the usual comeback when the fight was far advanced. Anyway, in the eighteenth round, as the blood was spattering the bawling mob around the ropes Porky Clark laid one on him, high on the temple, and poor Sam went down and according to some accounts I read later in the sporting press didn’t wake for a week. He never did regain control of his speech after that, now I come to think of it. Not that he ever had anything particularly interesting to say.

It wasn’t a good day for Sam Martin, but it was worse for me – first my grandfather hadn’t come through with anything other than a homily, I’d lost some ready by betting against Lester Grenwood, and now Porky Clark had done for me with his right fist.

It was time for me to make myself scarce. The disaffected crowd was breaking up into a few isolated battles as they disputed the legitimacy of the verdict … even though Sam Martin was still stretched unconscious on the muddied sward, but I avoided them easily enough. I pushed and barged my way through the sweating supporters, avoiding the eyes of the bookmakers I dealt with, and saw the peelers beginning to come down from their hill to separate some of the more violent squabbles. There were a few hansom cabs waiting on the road that fringed the Heath and I headed for them. Before I reached them however, I noted there was some kind of celebration going on near the bushes adjoining the highway, just behind the line of cabs. A couple of hats were knocked off, thrown in the air, and there was a degree of shouting. The unusual thing was that no great crowd had gathered, just a small group of the swell mob.

I thought I caught a glimpse of none other than Lewis Goodman among them before I turned aside, began to fight my way past a noisy group heading for the nearest tavern. It was then that I observed one man who stood watching the celebrating group, his back to me: there was something rural about him, a stocky, broad-shouldered fellow with a mass of red hair and muddy boots. His hands were on his hips, but his fists were clenched, and his head was lowered like a threatening bull. I glanced at him curiously. He was clearly in an angry, dangerous mood; he stared after the small group of whooping revellers, then slowly walked after them. His gait was stiff-legged: he reminded me just then of a belligerent fight dog, a bull mastiff entering the ring.

But it was none of my business. At least, I thought so at the time.

I reached the cabs, negotiated a price, and by supper time I was back in town. Still almost penniless.

I met my leading counsel, Alexander Cockburn, during breakfast at the Inn on the Monday morning. Like me he had spent a thoughtful weekend. Since his early struggles on the West Country circuit Cockburn had become much sought after by London solicitors and the briefs that were brought to his chambers were numerous. He could afford to pick and choose but it was clear to me from his demeanour over our kidneys and steak that during the weekend he had thought deeply about Wood v Peel and he was beginning to consider that he had chosen badly with the Running Rein case. It was always likely to be a cause célèbre, and I’ve no doubt that had attracted him for Cockburn enjoyed the limelight and was a sporting man by inclination. But he clearly felt we might be on dangerous ground: somehow the thing was all unbalanced.

‘I spoke to Baron Alderson at dinner, at the Inn last night,’ he growled unhappily, as he ladled some more kidneys onto his plate. ‘He has a clear disposition towards the other side. He considers it unwise of us to rely so heavily upon evidence from a man like Lewis Goodman: his name is a byword in racing circles and there’s every chance that the gullible Mr Wood was taken in by him.’

‘Mr Wood’s not the one on trial.’

He eyed me sourly, his narrow little eyes red-rimmed with displeasure. ‘Perhaps not, but I suppose you’ve heard the latest news from Bulstrode?’

I shook my head. ‘I haven’t seen him and—’

Cockburn’s mouth twisted unpleasantly. ‘He tells me that not only Bartle has gone missing. It seems the damned animal has also disappeared!’

I was thunderstruck. ‘What! But Baron Alderson—’

‘The judge wants to see the horse, and now we can’t produce the animal.’ He paused, took a mouthful of kidney, chewed it in distaste and eyed me coldly. ‘I trust you have properly loaded our barrels,’ Cockburn observed, as though it were all my fault.

I could see what was about to happen: he would be handing the problems to me. A witness had gone missing. Now the horse was not to be found. And the judge had already been nobbled by the other side.

It was with a heavy heart that I followed him as we made our way on foot from the Inner Temple to the Exchequer Court.

I’ve already emphasized that in those days courtrooms were regarded as places of entertainment. And Wood v Peel was turning into high theatre. There was the usual crowd milling about outside, and the shaggy-faced, blue-coated Cerberus on the doors greeted us warmly, happy that the sensationalism of the case and the rumbustious press reports had enabled him to raise entry prices to the benefit of his pocket. Then, as we entered, close to nine o’clock, Cockburn, already in a cantankerous mood, went as red as a rooster in season: Lord George Bentinck had seated himself between the Solicitor General and junior counsel.

Cockburn literally danced in anger. ‘I don’t think this is appropriate, Kelly. Lord George is my witness: I called him. I can’t have him sitting beside you!’

Kelly sniffed, smiled and ignored him.

There was a scuffling at the entrance to the courtroom. I looked around: Bulstrode was coming in, his face flushed, dragging with him an unhappy, reluctant, bow-legged little man. Bulstrode approached me, muttered that Ben Gully had advised it: the new witness was a stableman by the name of Cornelius Smith. A replacement for the missing Joe Bartle, who seemed to have gone to ground like a hunted fox.

The usher entered a moment later and called for all to be upstanding. As the crowd hustled about and those on the benches rose to their feet the usher was followed by the heavy, cantankerous figure of the judge. Baron Alderson was barely seated before the irate Cockburn, stiff-legged, made his application. ‘My lord, I wish to move that Lord George Bentinck be required to withdraw.’

‘Withdraw?’ Baron Alderson grumbled, gathering his robes about him, peering around the room like a disturbed, suspicious owl, and adjusting his heavy wig. ‘On what ground would you wish him to withdraw? It was you who called him to give evidence. You can hardly object to his presence now.’

‘Then I would beg your lordship to request that Lord George sit elsewhere. It is most inappropriate that he should be seated with counsel for Colonel Peel.’

The judge glared at him, then swept the room with glowering eyes. He saw Bentinck, jutted his lower lip, and turned back to the protesting advocate. ‘Where would you have him sit, Mr Cockburn?’ Baron Alderson growled in a dangerously cool tone.

‘Anywhere but there, my lord!’ Cockburn snapped to a chorus of hooting and laughter.

‘I cannot see it makes any difference where Lord George sits,’ Baron Alderson replied above the din, ‘providing we get down to business. I believe we are waiting upon you to produce the primary evidence so that we may reach judgment in this hearing. I refer of course to the animal itself, the subject of this dispute.’

Cockburn sat down abruptly. He’d had enough. ‘You take it, James,’ he snarled. I was to be captain on the sinking ship.

As I rose, I flicked my gown in a show of confidence I hardly felt. Airily, I waved a white-gloved hand. ‘My lord, we have already proved the identity of the horse—’

‘To your satisfaction, perhaps. But now we’ll have a look at the animal,’ Baron Alderson growled, not to be deflected. He nodded towards a sober-looking gentleman in a brown coat, seated to one side of me. ‘The court has commissioned a veterinary surgeon to carry out an inspection.’

I swallowed hard. ‘My lord, I greatly regret that these circumstances have made so great an impression on your lordship’s mind, but if you will only—’

Baron Alderson held up an admonitory hand, cutting me off. He looked about him, scouring the court and I obtained the sudden impression that he was beginning to enjoy himself hugely. ‘Do I detect an anxiety on your part, perhaps an intention to conceal this horse? I ordered it to be produced this morning.’

‘But, my lord—’

‘Produce your horse!’

There was thunder in his tone. The room was shocked to silence. I swished my gown nervously. It had to be faced. I hesitated, licked my dry lips and put on a pleading expression. ‘I regret, my lord, that I cannot!’

There was a long deep silence, and then almost like a wave breaking on the shore a great uproar broke out. Baron Alderson’s features were twisted with rage as he rose to his feet and hammered with his gavel on the bench: he was almost beside himself when the gavel broke and the head of the instrument went spinning across the courtroom, almost beheading the usher. The man ducked, and the flying missile laid out the man standing up and bellowing on the seat behind him.

Above the growing tumult, I yelled, ‘My lord, I can explain… if I may call to the witness box Mr Cornelius Smith …’

Baron Alderson glared at me as though he could hardly believe his ears. Then he calmed, nodded to the usher and sat back grimly in his seat. The uproar subsided only when the bowlegged stable owner was sworn in. He stood sullenly in the witness box, head down, mouth reluctant, the squint in his left eye more prominent than ever under the strain of a court appearance. I had had time only for a brief conversation with Bulstrode while Cornelius Smith was sworn in. Cockburn was picking at his nails. In a moment, I knew, he’d skulk out of the courtroom, murmuring something about another hearing elsewhere. I stumbled to my feet. ‘You are Mr Cornelius Smith, the owner of the stables at—’

‘One moment,’ Baron Alderson growled threateningly, ‘I think I will conduct this examination myself.’

I began to protest. The judge raised a peremptory hand.

‘This is very likely to be a matter of contempt of court, Mr James. Sit down.’ The baron turned to the stable owner. ‘You are here to explain why the horse is not here as directed?’

‘It wasn’t my doing, my lord!’

Baron Alderson’s tone was gritty. ‘What happened?’

‘I wasn’t to know, your lordship,’ Smith said sullenly. ‘They just came to me and they took the horse.’

‘Who did?’

‘I didn’t know them, my lord.’

The judge sat back, astonished. ‘You allowed strangers to take the horse from your stables, when you knew the animal was the subject of a court hearing?’ Baron Alderson asked in rising fury.

‘I didn’t have no control of Running Rein,’ Smith replied sullenly. ‘He’s not my colt, I was just stabling him.’

‘But you handed the horse over to strangers!’

‘They said they’d come on instructions from the owner, Mr Wood.’

I heard Ernest Wood struggling to his feet behind me. His voice was high-pitched, nervous, faltering. ‘I gave no such instructions! I sent no one to take the horse from the stables!’

Among the cat-calling of the crowd Baron Alderson glared balefully at him until Wood sat down. Then the judge turned back to the stable owner. ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’

Cornelius Smith shuffled in the witness box. His voice was nervous, edged with uncertainty. ‘It was about half past six yesterday evening, your honour. I was at the stables when these two men came down. They had a message from Mr Wood, they said. Running Rein was to be taken by them to a stable nearer the court. Ready for the hearing this morning. I had no reason to argue: they seemed genuine enough to me. So I let them take him.’

‘Where did they take the horse?’

‘I dunno, your honour. Honest.’

‘And you don’t even know who they were?’ Baron Alderson ground out.

‘Never saw neither of them afore, your honour.’

For some inexplicable reason the court suddenly went quiet. Baron Alderson leaned his head against the back of his chair. He sat still for a little while, glaring at the unfortunate stable owner and then he turned his heavy head. He glowered at Cockburn’s retreating back as my leader made his careful way from the room. That left just me. Alderson’s piggy eyes held a certain satisfaction as they dwelt upon me.

‘You have a motion to make?’ Baron Alderson grunted in a low, dangerous tone.

‘My lord, if I may ask a few further questions of the witness—’

‘You may not,’ Baron Alderson snapped. ‘It would serve no purpose!’

I stood there speechless, twitching nervously at my gown. Baron Alderson continued to glare at me for a while, then slowly turned his bewigged head to look directly at the jury. The silence in the courtroom was complete: all waited on the judge’s words. There was a contemptuous curl to Baron Alderson’s heavy lips. ‘So there we have it, gentlemen. Mr James wants to ask questions of the witness. Yet there is but one question before this court: the age of the horse. It can be settled quite simply: by producing the animal called Running Rein for the inspection of the court. It is owned by Mr Wood. It was sold to him by Mr Levi Goodman. The animal has been in the custody of Mr Cornelius Smith at his stables, at Mr Wood’s request. But now it has disappeared. The horse cannot be produced. It has been taken by strangers. Its whereabouts are unknown.’ He raised his eyebrows, shaking his head in disbelief, then turned back to me. His tone was evil. ‘You cannot go on without the horse, Mr James.’

There was no choice left open to me. I swallowed hard, glanced at the pale-faced owner of Running Rein and shrugged. Wood seemed thunderstruck as in a lame voice I muttered, ‘I regret, my lord, that my client is forced to withdraw his complaint.’

Pandemonium ensued. The withdrawal was not to the liking of the sweaty mob on the back benches of the courtroom. There was a storm of hissing and catcalling that rose to a crescendo when Lord George Bentinck and Colonel Peel were seen to be shaking hands, smiling, congratulating each other. I looked around. Ben Gully was no longer in court. Lewis Goodman was still there, standing near the doorway, seemingly unconcerned. I noted that he was talking quietly to none other than the prize fighter Porky Clark, whose face was a mass of bruises, but who bore a satisfied smirk on his swollen lips.

I wondered if Goodman had a financial interest in Porky … and I began to wonder whether the battle with Sam Martin on Sunday at the Heath had not been all it seemed to be. The beaten man had seemed sluggish throughout the fight. It wasn’t unknown for something to be slipped into a man’s drink …

But my thoughts were wandering. That battle was yesterday. Today was another story. Here in court, Goodman did not seem particularly upset by the situation: there was a slight, cynical smile on his handsome features. The noise spilled around us as with a brief nod in my direction Goodman pushed his way out through the doors of the Exchequer courtroom, some of the swell mob surging out in his wake, but leaving Porky Clark behind, leaning against the wall.

Baron Alderson sat solidly, quietly on the bench, for once making no attempt to quell the disturbance, but his passivity was menacing and gradually that menace came through to the crowd. Silence slowly fell. And I became aware of a drumming against the filthy windows. The drought was over. Rain began to hammer against the dirty panes, streaking the filth down to the street, cleaning the gutters, sending more filth down into the already polluted Thames.

Baron Alderson glanced around the court and turned his head to stare directly at me. He took a deep, sighing breath. ‘This has been a case beyond my previous experience. I have heard of trickery, ringers, betting syndicates; I have heard performances from counsel which are a disgrace in that they have sought to attack persons who were seeking only for truth and justice; I have heard slanderous comments made …’

His piggy eyes seemed to drill into mine. ‘These may well be adjudged in another place. But … in my view a most atrocious fraud has been practised – there can be no other explanation for the plaintiff’s failure to produce the horse in question. I do not seek to blame Mr Wood personally in this matter: he has clearly been misled by others of a more dubious reputation, although he would have been well advised to heed the doubts raised earlier by Lord George Bentinck within the purview of the Jockey Club. But it is a matter for great regret that I have seen gentlemen associating with persons much below themselves in station.’ His steely, angry glance swept over me, and then turned on Ernest Wood. ‘If gentlemen would associate with gentlemen we should have no such practices. But if gentlemen will condescend to race with blackguards, they must expect to be cheated …’

I stayed slumped on my bench after the judge rose and the crowd thinned. There had been enough in Baron Alderson’s demeanour to tell me that not only were my hopes of fame – the right kind of fame – dashed. There would also be a report on this whole matter to the Benchers of my Inn. My climb to the stars was now in high jeopardy.

Cockburn would keep himself well out of the furore. That left … me.

2

As it happened, the collapse of the trial was not entirely to my disadvantage.

While it was not the kind of attention I had hoped for, the coverage in the newspapers after the trial was at least extensive: The Times thundered on in two columns – I think it was John Delane’s work, he never liked me you know, and years later when he was editor of the newspaper it was he who sidled up to Prince Albert, poured poison into the pious, priggish royal ear to stop me getting the knighthood I deserved …

But where was I?

Ah, yes, The Times attacked me, the Spectator joined in the clamour, as did the Morning Post. Among the weekly journals, Punch even produced an unflattering cartoon of a horse having its teeth inspected by a bemused barrister. Me, in effect. And I received a verbal caning in their usual doggerel.

The Law Times was even more censorious: it took the general view, sympathy for the corn merchant, described as the innocent dupe of unscrupulous tricksters, but as far as the trial was concerned brought its guns to bear on my ‘wild and unfounded accusations’ against Lord George Bentinck.

But not a word about my leader, or his absence from the courtroom when Alderson thundered out his judgment.

I was left to face the music. And my creditors were queuing up at my lodgings.

But on the other hand a new trickle of briefs came to my clerk Villiers, as solicitors were asked by their clients to use the man who had so violently attacked the aristocrats. But I knew I was still on a knife edge.

On the Wednesday of the week following, Charlie Wilkins came down from high table at the Inn to sit beside me. ‘A word, James? In the library?’

I followed his portly, affable figure way across the busy hall, up the steps and past the portraits of eminent Benchers of the past, to the discreet, little used library. Little used by me, anyway. Like most barristers I had never been much for reading, particularly of law books. You get to learn the law by practice, not book-reading … and besides you could always get some other poor soul to devil for you, get the case up so you could use your own personal oratorical gifts, make an effective presentation in court. That was one of the tasks I delegated to Villiers.

So there we were, Wilkins and I, together among the shelves of musty, leather-bound, rarely consulted books. Wilkins eyed the dusty bindings with displeasure and confirmed my own experience. ‘Always say it’s better not to get bogged down with law. Appeal to the emotions; wring the old heartstrings. Get to the twelve good men and true. It’s why I always drink a pot of stout at midday.’

‘What?’

‘A pot of stout. Nothing like it to fuddle the brain. That then brings me down to the intellectual standard of the average British jury. Not to mention the judge.’ He winked, expansively. ‘But you know all about that, hey? You’re already being reckoned to be a capital man with a jury.’ He eyed me, carefully. ‘But not over Running Rein, hey?’

‘The issue never reached them,’ I muttered. ‘If only—’

‘Yes … Running Rein … and the attitude of the Benchers.’ Wilkins twitched at his whiskers thoughtfully. ‘I understand there’s a degree of … dissatisfaction about your performance. The attack on Lord George Bentinck was deemed in certain quarters to have been extravagant. They’ve been considering hauling you up before them.’

‘Cockburn—’

‘Has gone sailing. They won’t touch the jumped up little bastard. Too big these days. Heading for honours. But a junior like yourself, well, they like the taste of fresh meat in their jaws occasionally. Just to lay down some markers for other juniors.’

I was bitter and angry. ‘My attack on Bentinck was justified. There are stories about him; there’s evidence that demonstrates what a humbug, what a hypocrite he is—’

‘That’s as may be, James, but he’s a powerful man, with powerful friends. However, no matter. I put a word in with the Benchers. After the Cider Cellars the other night, well, a man knows who his friends are, hey? But be certain, my boy. The Benchers are gunning for you. Be careful, James. Tread a more cautious line.’ He grinned suddenly, linked his arm in mine. ‘There, that’s done. Duty completed. So, what do you say to a grog? The Café Chantant suit you, my boy?’

It suited me.

So, in spite of the attacks on me by the yellow press and the muttering behind closed doors of the Benchers, the reality was that my practice suddenly began to look more promising. The number of briefs that came to me increased. Solicitors had seen enough of me at the Exchequer Court to become interested: clients like a bulldog who snarls and snaps in court, you know. They feel they’re getting value for their money, even if they lose. But even so, I wasn’t happy. I felt ill-used. Cockburn had pushed me into the firing line and ducked his head behind the parapet. Bentinck and the Jockey Club were smugly pleased. The Benchers were watching. I was smarting.

I met Ben Gully at The Blue Posts to discuss the whole thing. He confirmed what I was feeling.

‘You need to tread careful, Mr James. Lord George didn’t like the way you handled him: he’s arrogant, and touchy, and he makes a bad enemy. And he’s got the Jockey Club behind him.’

‘I’m taking a beating in the newspapers, Ben,’ I replied sullenly, ‘and I don’t like it.’ I contemplated my brandy and water. ‘So, what exactly do you think happened to Running Rein?’

Ben Gully’s errant eye wandered thoughtfully. He shook his scarred head. ‘I don’t know, Mr James. He’s been hidden somewhere, I don’t doubt, safe enough in some up-country stable. Valuable piece of horseflesh, you see. But the whole thing was sleight of hand. It was like the thimble-riggers and the sharps and bonnets you see at the race course – tricksters all. First you see it, then you don’t.’ He sniffed. ‘We had a witness, name of Bartle. He didn’t turn up. We had a horse. It got spirited away. You never stood a chance, Mr James, not when the cards were really down on the table.’

My gut growled irritably. ‘Do you think Bentinck was involved? In spiriting away the horse, I mean? If so, what did he have to gain by hiding the horse?’

Ben Gully sniffed again and traced a stubby finger on some grog that had spilled on the table in front of us. ‘He’d shouted long enough about a ringer in the Derby. But he could have been wrong. You can never tell in the courtroom, can you? If the judge had held Running Rein was what his owner claimed he was … Bentinck wouldn’t have liked losing face.’

I eyed Ben Gully carefully. He’d still not given me his own opinion. ‘Do you think Running Rein was a two-year-old colt?’

Gully shrugged. ‘Mr Wood was pretty sure of it.’

I didn’t like the evasion. ‘The way things are, Ben, nothing’s been proved: Goodman can stick to his story, Mr Wood has lost a deal of tin – and I feel I’ve been led by the nose.’

Gully was silent for a little while. He took a pull at his porter, then said, ‘Look upon it as experience, Mr James.’ Then, seeing the expression on my face, he added, ‘If you intend following up the matter, Mr James, best leave Bentinck alone.’

‘That leaves Lewis Goodman.’

Ben Gully stared at me portentously. ‘I’ll be straight with you, Mr James. The track gossip is there were indeed ringers in the Derby. Possibly two. Both put up by Lewis Goodman. And several men of consequence have had their fingers burned.’ His glance slipped away. ‘I hear Lord Havermere’s son has been caught, among others.’

Lester Grenwood. I nodded. ‘Grenwood mentioned it to me.’ At the Cider Cellars I’d learned from gossip that both he and that popinjay Hussar Hilliard had been in a syndicate. We sat silently for a while, mulling things over.

The truth is, I should have left well alone at that point. It was Ben Gully’s certain view: I could tell from the way he looked at me. But I disliked the mud the newspapers were throwing; I didn’t like scornful fingers pointed at me, or sniggers in the clubs. I’d been frustrated unjustly by Baron Alderson because of the judge’s dislike of the Turf and friendships in the Reform Club; I still writhed mentally under the lash of the newspaper comment and the attitude of the Inner Temple Benchers; and I was angry at the way in which Alexander Cockburn had manoeuvred himself out of the limelight at the appropriate moment.

‘You’re taking this too personally, Mr James,’ Gully murmured after a while. ‘That’s bad, sir.’

‘I’d damned well like to discover the truth of it all.’

Ben Gully emptied his mug. He shook his head doubtfully. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

‘Make further enquiries.’

Gully wrinkled his battered nose doubtfully. ‘Could be a waste of time and money. Everything’s gone quiet. No Joe Bartle. No Running Rein. No information on the street, other than the usual ill-informed gossip.’

I frowned. ‘What about this man Bartle? Why did he just disappear?’

Ben Gully shrugged. ‘Paid, I reckon. Maybe gone off to darkest Yorkshire. Or lying low in London. He was to give evidence supporting Goodman’s story so I wouldn’t put it past Bentinck to suborn him. Lord George can afford it to save his own reputation.’

‘And the horse?’

Ben Gully drew a deep, reflective sigh. ‘Now that’s another matter. It could well be that Lord George is behind that. On the other hand it could be Goodman – he didn’t want to take the chance of having the horse he’d sold to Wood shown up as a ringer in court. He’d have been taken aback by the judge’s attitude…. But going back to Bartle.’ Gully tapped a fingernail against his teeth. ‘I did hear there was a bit of a problem at the stables, on the Wednesday he left, but the stableman Cornelius Smith is keeping close. My guess is he’s been warned off saying too much – by Bentinck or Goodman, who’s to say?’ Gully eyed me covertly. ‘You didn’t happen to turn up at the Porky Clark–Sam Martin battle, that Sunday afternoon?’

‘I was there.’

Gully frowned. ‘I missed it. Business down at the docks. But one of my … advisers, he told me he thought he saw Joe Bartle in the crowd. So the stableman was still around at the weekend, on the day before your case collapsed.’

‘Goodman was also there, on the Heath.’

‘Well, he would be, with the rest of the swell mob. As for Joe Bartle, seems that he got himself into some kind of scuffle. Before he vanished again.’

‘There was a lot of battles going on at the Heath that afternoon,’ I recalled.

‘That’s nothing new,’ Gully agreed.

I took a deep breath. ‘This man Bartle. I think that’s where the key lies. We need to talk to Joe Bartle. He was at the stable; he would have supported Goodman’s evidence. But he didn’t turn up, and now he’s gone to ground. Get out into the streets, Ben. See what you can find. I’m sure if we can get to talk to Bartle, we’ll find out what really happened to turn our case into a fiasco.’

‘I’ll do it, Mr James, but,’ Gully added warningly, ‘I have to tell you it’s going to cost.’

‘Don’t worry about the money,’ I replied confidently. I had an appointment with Mr Bulstrode the following afternoon.

3

‘I’ve seen your clerk, Mr Villiers,’ Bulstrode announced wheezily, settling back in the easy chair and accepting gracefully the glass of sherry proffered him. He stroked his flamboyant cravat in self satisfaction. ‘Your clerk will no doubt have informed you that your fee has been paid in full, Mr James … we always pride ourselves at Bulstrode and Bulstrode that we settle our debts promptly.’ He licked a pudgy finger, smoothed his left eyebrow smugly. ‘It’s helpful, of course, to have an honourable man like Mr Wood who is also prepared to settle up quickly. As for the case itself, the outcome was a great pity, a great pity for Mr Wood. He is quite cast down.’

‘He’s been made a fool of,’ I replied curtly. ‘As we all have.’

Bulstrode eyed me, a certain anxiety creeping into his eyes. His tone took on a nervous edge. ‘I admit things did not go well for us….’

‘The dice were heavily loaded against us,’ I asserted with vigour. ‘It’s clear to me that Baron Alderson was nobbled by members of the Jockey Club. The stableman Joe Bartle was probably paid to stay away from the courtroom. And the damned horse was stolen away from under our noses.’

‘It’s all been most unfortunate,’ Bulstrode muttered unhappily. ‘And it’s too late to be remedied now, of course, but the whole affair leaves me very angry of disposition.’

I knew I’d have to play my West Country solicitor carefully. I affected a cynical air. ‘Do you enjoy being made a fool of, Bulstrode?’

The West Country solicitor wriggled uncomfortably and sipped his sherry. ‘Made a fool of … I’m not sure I’d go that far, Mr James.’

I injected anger into my tones. ‘I would. It’s been nothing less than a conspiracy from the beginning. We’ve been caught in the middle of a great confidence trick, Bulstrode, perpetrated by one or the other, or even both sides! We have that tricky villain Goodman on the one hand, and we have on the other Lord George Bentinck and his aristocratic friends. Colonel Peel, it seems to me, is as much a gull as Ernest Wood in this matter. Both have been pulled by powerful forces. Evil forces. The underworld on the one hand, and the reprehensible use of power and privilege on the other. Don’t you agree, Bulstrode?’

‘Well, I’m not sure….’ Bulstrode hesitated. I poured him another glass of sherry to stiffen his sinews. ‘I suppose there is something in what you say,’ he admitted unhappily, staring at his highly polished boots.

‘Absolutely right! And I think it’s up to us, as men of probity and honour and determination, to do something about it!’

It rang the right bell. Bulstrode preened a little at my choice of words. He sipped his sherry. ‘Probity and honour and determination. Well, of course, we did our best in the courtroom….’

‘But that was not enough! The undoubted fact is we were overcome by powers of darkness. But you and I, we are men of law, are we not? It’s up to people like us to surmount such difficulties, fight on in the pursuit of truth and justice!’

Bulstrode’s eyes gleamed. He enjoyed the ring of my words. He was clearly flattered by my suggesting we were seekers of truth and justice. ‘I’ll drink to that, Mr James,’ he replied boldly, raising his half-empty glass.

I eyed him carefully. ‘So you agree we should not let this sleeping dog lie, then?’

Bulstrode finished his sherry in a gulp and set down the glass. ‘Indeed … absolutely not!’ He frowned. ‘But how….?’

‘I don’t think we should let these evil-doers get away with it,’ I growled truculently. ‘We should look into the possibility of another trial.’

Bulstrode sighed and shook his heavy head. ‘I don’t think Mr Wood is quite up to that. He’s quite devastated, poor man. He’s taken to his country house in Gloucestershire, and is avoiding society at the moment. Another trial….’

‘We’d have to get the evidence first, of course,’ I intervened quickly. ‘To demonstrate where the guilt lies. We can only expose the conspiracy when we have the evidence.’

‘But without instructions from Mr Wood, or some other interested party—’

‘But aren’t we interested parties?’ I insisted. ‘You and I, Bulstrode? Men of law?’ I thundered. ‘Men who have been made fools of? Men of pluck and probity, determination and destiny? Haven’t we a part to play, as seekers of truth and justice?’

It was the kind of rhetoric that became my trademark at the Old Bailey in later years. Bulstrode jumped in his seat, a little alarmed but also excited by my blustering tone. ‘Well, yes, of course, but I don’t see—’

‘To find the truth, all we need is money,’ I said confidentially, pouring the solicitor another glass of sherry from the diminished decanter. ‘I have contacts, as I told you earlier. I feel sure we can get to the bottom of all this, and then we can call for a new trial, redeem Mr Wood, save his reputation, and confuse both Goodman and the Jockey Club!’

Bulstrode’s eyes grew round. He accepted the refilled glass. ‘I have to agree that the prospect is—’

‘Exciting! Yes, I knew you’d see it my way!’ My tone was confident. I waited as he drained his glass with an enthusiastic flourish then leant over and once more filled the glass to the brim. It was an investment. ‘I can get Ben Gully on it right away. It’ll need a small advance of course, say five hundred pounds, but I’m sure he’ll be able to get us the information we need.’

‘Five… five hundred pounds.’ Bulstrode paled a little and his hand shook as he lifted his sherry glass for the fifth time. ‘But if we don’t have a principal who will pay us …’

‘Come, come, Bulstrode, you’re a man of means! I’ll put some of my own money into it, of course, but I’m sure you can find five hundred for a private investigation of the circumstances surrounding Wood v Peel! We’re seekers after truth and justice, after all. And think of the glory afterwards, when we prove what’s to prove. Consider the publicity! It will be the talk of the City! Bulstrode and James … what a combination, hey? Irresistible!’

The images burned in his mind. I could see the pride in his eyes as Bulstrode beamed his pleasure and he waved his glass happily. But, as he drank, a little doubt crept back, and the doubts returned. He wrinkled his nose, picked at his lip with an uncertain finger, and eyed me a little uneasily. He sighed. ‘It’s not an easy matter, Mr James. The prospect is extremely attractive of course … and you’re absolutely right.’ He hiccupped loudly, and put an apologetic hand to his mouth. ‘We should … we should regard this perhaps as a matter of public duty. But though I cannot dispute I am other than a man of some means, I’ve already expended a considerable amount of money on this case … sums which I could not in all conscience call upon Mr Wood to furnish … and I’m not at all sure that a further advance….’

His voice died away miserably. I allowed the silence to grow around us, embarrassingly. It requires patience to land a struggling fish. At last, I shrugged and in a careless tone, I said, ‘Well, it don’t signify. If you think the matter of insufficient importance….’

Bulstrode wriggled unhappily at the hint of contempt in my voice. ‘I didn’t say….’

‘No matter. The villains will get away with it, but that’s the way of the world.’ I paused, eyeing the ceiling. ‘So, you’re up here in London for a few days, then, Bulstrode?’

‘That’s right, Mr James,’ the solicitor replied, eager to get away from the painful subject of a further advance. ‘I’ve just deposited another brief for you with Mr Villiers. It’s not going to be a cause célèbre of course, but it involves the second son of Lord Cantelupe, and a certain actress who is bringing a charge against him for breach of promise. There are some compromising letters—’

‘Oh, I’m sure we can do something for the second son of Lord Cantelupe,’ I interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. ‘However, I take it you’ll be staying in London overnight, of course.’

Bulstrode nodded eagerly. ‘For a few days in fact. I have lodgings at….’

‘I was recently elected a member of the Devonshire Club. Sponsored by Lord Clanricarde, as a matter of fact. I shall be dining there later tonight and if you don’t happen to have an engagement this evening perhaps you’d care to join me there, as my guest for dinner.’

Bulstrode beamed. ‘Mr James, I—’

‘Count d’Orsay often puts in an appearance at the club,’ I remarked casually. ‘And the Earl of Chesterfield is a member, as is Lord Lytton. It’s quite a good table, too. Sometimes there’s whist afterwards. Or roly poly. On the other hand, perhaps it would be more to your taste after dinner to step out into the Haymarket….’

‘Mr James,’ Bulstrode positively glowed, ‘I’d be honoured to accept your invitation!’

The line had been paid out, the hook swallowed. The fish was almost netted.

In those days, during the daylight hours the Strand and the Haymarket were quiet enough, with occasional newsboys plying their wares, men strolling to or from their offices, carts and carriages rattling along to the West End. But as you might be aware, my boy, when dusk fell the character of the area changed. The night houses opened their doors in the Strand, the Haymarket, Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. Brightly dressed whores emerged from Catherine Street to parade in their finery under the gas lamps near the theatres, and the gin palaces, hotels, French restaurants, and oyster shops lit up the area, did a roaring trade while the coffee houses who had kept blinds drawn all day now gleamed their windows onto the street. The scene was all very familiar to me: Windmill Street crowded with flash men and fast women, cabs and carriages jostling along the cobbles to deposit young men out for an evening’s entertainment, old hags selling fruit and flowers, dollymops arm in arm, giggling as they eyed up the young bucks with their curling whiskers. As the theatres emptied towards midnight the dancing saloons became crowded and the supper lounges were filled with bullies and whores, pickpockets and thieves, fools and rogues. At midnight they all came spilling out of the Argyll Rooms calling for broughams, or hansom cabs, or staggering on to a one of the numerous night houses: the army, navy, the universities, the Inns of Court, the City and the Stock Exchange all were well represented.

I was well aware that for a gentleman like Bulstrode, up from the country, it could be a dazzling, exciting scene: sherry cobblers and cigars in a Haymarket coffee house, a roaring chorus in the Café Chantant, comic songs in the Cave of Harmony, and the Judge and Jury Society in the Garrick’s Head, under the lead of ‘Chief Baron’ Renton Nicholson.

‘You’ll enjoy this,’ I assured Bulstrode as I paid the shilling to enter and manoeuvred the inebriated solicitor into a seat at the back of the crowded room. The fee included a glass of grog and a cigar and I was certain it would be money well spent. I pointed out to Bulstrode the notorious Renton Nicholson. A burly, coarse-looking individual with a red face and leering style, he sat at a raised desk railed off and facing a table set for ‘counsel’ and a makeshift jury box. He was dressed in tattered court robes with a wig worn askew and an eyeglass screwed into his left eye. ‘Counsel’ had been made up to resemble noted advocates and they gave exaggerated imitations of peculiar mannerisms and oratorical flights. One of them, I noted sourly, was wearing white gloves. They were already well launched into tonight’s parody of a recent criminal conversation case with which most of the audience were familiar and Nicholson and his supporting ‘counsel’ were drawing from the participants as much by way of salacious comment, obscenity and double entendres as was possible.

When we had finished our grog, I called for gin and water, and Bulstrode sat gaping as the ‘Chief Baron’ demanded further evidence of the witnesses as to what they had observed of the adulterous relationship in question.

‘So you applied your eye to the hole?’

‘Not only my eye, m’lud!’

‘And what did you see?’

‘More’n I ever did see before, m’lud … or behind!’

The drunken audience hooted with raucous laughter and Bulstrode reached for his gin. Sherry, wine at dinner, and now grog and gin had worked their spell. He raised the glass to his mouth shakily, spilling some of it over the gilt buttons of his waistcoat, and gaped at me owlishly. ‘Shplendid evening, shplendid!’ Then the glass dropped, and shattered on the floor. Bulstrode glared at it as though it had committed some unpar-donable offence and then blinked, slowly closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. It had been a long and exciting day and the alcohol was finally getting to him. His blubbery lips pursed, a small bubble emerged and popped silently and a little sigh of satisfaction escaped him. He would remember little of the Judge and Jury Society.

‘Strange company you keep, James!’

I glanced up: Lieutenant Edward Crosier Hilliard, with yet another dollymop. He was drunk, his mouth loose, his eyes vacant. ‘May I sit down? Legs a bit tottery, don’t you know.’ He gave the bold-eyed girl he was with a shove. ‘You can push off now; I found a friend.’

She began to protest but saw the danger in his eye, and after a moment flounced away. I glared distastefully at the hussar officer. The company was little to my liking, but Hilliard was drunk and it was easier to humour him.

‘Who’s your friend?’ Hilliard mumbled, staring at Bulstrode.

‘A professional acquaintance.’

‘Up from the country, I see,’ Crosier Hilliard said, looking him over and sneering at the cut of his coat, and the gilt-buttoned waistcoat. ‘Can always tell, you know. They have a smell about them. What’s his line? Cattle? Pigs?’

‘He’s a solicitor,’I replied in a cool tone.

‘Same thing, begod!’ Hilliard guffawed. He repeated the comment, finding it hilarious, and then jerked his head about, beckoned to the waiter, thumped on the table, calling for gin. He turned back to me, grinning wolfishly. ‘See that dollymop I was with? Had her last week. But couldn’t be bothered tonight. Stale meat, you know, James. You seen Grenwood lately?’

Hilliard’s whiskers were stained with nicotine and his dress coat was marked at the lapels with spilled wine. I stared at him with contempt. While freely plying the Exeter solicitor I had kept my own drinking under control this evening, aware I would have to get Bulstrode back to his lodgings, and still with a task to perform. I shook his head. ‘Haven’t seen Grenwood since I came across the two of you at Hampstead Heath.’

‘Hah! The Porky Clark battle! Yes, of course. The fact is, Grenwood’s keeping close, you know. His old man … Lord Havermere … got him on a tight rein at the moment. Truth of the matter is,’ Hilliard leaned forward confidentially, ‘he’s in a bit of trouble … and he’s not alone!’ The hussar guffawed loudly, finding the comment incomprehensibly witty. ‘Staying close to home, trying to persuade the old skinflint to get him off the hook.’

‘What hook?’

‘Different with me, you see,’ Hilliard announced slyly. ‘Got expectations, don’t you know. Banker’s daughter from Sheffield. The delectable Miss Edge. So I’ll get out of it, you wait and see.’

‘Get out of what?’

‘That damned Running Rein affair,’ Hilliard belched.

I was intrigued suddenly. I glanced at Bulstrode, making sure the man was really asleep, head lowered on his chest. Confirmation came from the light snoring sound emanating from his open mouth. I turned back to Hilliard. ‘I picked up some rumours at the tables in Almack’s the other evening. Just what exactly is your involvement in that business?’

Hilliard winked and placed one finger along his nose. ‘Ahah! Not to be bruited abroad, if you know what I mean. But you’re a friend of Grenwood … he came to me with a proposal. Form a syndicate. Bets on two horses … good odds. Inside tip. And it all worked out, just as we’d been promised.’ He frowned, and clucked his tongue. ‘Except for that bastard Lord George Bentinck. Upturned the damned applecart, didn’t he? And Grenwood and I, we’d had a hell of a job, raising the necessary tin, but made it in the end … borrowed from a few people in the East End.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘Stay away from them, James, those damned moneylenders. They’ll have your boots and your teeth before they finish.’

They already had their hands on my damned boots, that was the problem. ‘But why is there a difficulty for you and Grenwood? Weren’t the bets all called off after Colonel Peel defaulted?’

Hilliard shook his head fiercely. ‘No, it all worked perfeck … perfectly. Running Rein came in as we expected. And the other horse was shoved out of the race early, as we’d been told. These little jockeys … they can be cunning buggers, believe me.’

‘Yet you and Grenwood are in trouble. With the moneylenders?’

Hilliard stared at me, befuddled, a certain irritation appearing in his eyes. He tugged at his moustache. ‘Nothing I can’t deal with, James! But Grenwood … he’s in deeper than me, and it seems he can’t raise the tin.’

‘But with the defaulting….’

‘It wasn’t just that! The damn welshing by Colonel Peel came after we’d settled our bets. We got part of our winnings quickly enough, but only a fraction of the full amount before the storm broke and that damned man Bentinck started shouting the odds. So the money that was paid out, it was called back … too many people waiting to see what happened in court. Fact is, you see, the bets were spread pretty widely … lot of people involved. And after Bentinck put the word out, we found ourselves in trouble. With the wrong people, if you know what I mean. Both Grenwood and I, we soon used up what we’d received. And now, well, we’re told that unless we settle up there’ll be a visit from the heavy mob. So we’re left … Grenwood and I, that is … with bad debts, and owing a hell of a lot to the moneylenders.’ He grimaced. ‘And Grenwood’s been trying to recover the situation … but the tables’ve let him down too. His paper’s all over town, but they won’t see much of it back, I warrant. He’s having the most infernal bad luck. He even backed the wrong man in the Porky Clark–Sam Martin bout! Dammit, even I got that one right!’

Unlike me.

Hilliard nodded to himself and began to say something, then stopped. He glanced around him furtively, and shook his head as though reminding himself to be wary. ‘We didn’t come back to Town together from the Heath, you know, though. I left early: appointment in Town.’ He leered. ‘I gather Goody Levy gave Grenwood a ride … and took him on to The Quadrant.’ Hilliard snickered. ‘I’m told that Grenwood lost a packet that night too.’

‘This syndicate you’ve been talking about,’ I said slowly, ‘who put you up to it? Where did the information about the race come from?’

Hilliard looked at me as though he thought me slow-witted. ‘Where else? Goody Levy, of course.’

A roar of laughter almost drowned him out as another obscene witticism from Renton Nicholson was received with raucous delight by the drunken gathering. My attention wandered for a moment.

‘And when Mr Allcock was seen by you naked with Lady Plum … just how would you describe him?’

‘He was rising to the occasion, m’lud and living up to his name!’

The bellowing laughter disturbed Bulstrode; the solicitor swallowed, blinked and opened his eyes slowly, looking around him with an owlish expression, at a loss as to his whereabouts. I would have liked to question Hilliard more but now Bulstrode was awake I had other objectives to achieve. I nodded to Hilliard and took Bulstrode by the arm, dragging him upright from his seat.

‘Time to go,’ I said.

Hilliard was still sitting there, staring mournfully at his gin in the sudden depression of a drunk, when I steered Bulstrode from the noise, fumes and stench of the Garrick’s Head to a cabman waiting under the hissing gas lamps.

In the end, the evening proved to be a successful one. I took Bulstrode back to his lodgings and entered the lounge of the small private hotel with him, for a late night drink to round off the evening. The solicitor was now more awake, but still inebriated: he kept expressing his gratitude for my providing an evening of such ‘royal entertainment’, as he put it; so grateful, in fact, that he cheerfully signed, with a drunken flourish, the paper I pushed in front of him. But it meant that I was late to bed myself, and with an aching head.

As a result I was not best pleased to be woken by a pounding at the door of my chambers at seven the next morning.

It was Ben Gully.

Still in my nightshirt, I let him in. ‘Confound you, is this necessary?’ I groaned.

‘I thought you’d like to know as soon as possible,’ Ben Gully replied coolly, standing slouched in the doorway.

‘Know what, damn you…?’ I muttered in a sullen tone, holding my head, and pouring myself a glass of water to counter the raging thirst I was suffering from.

‘Can you come with me?’

‘Now? Impossible,’ I replied sharply. I took a long draught of water. ‘I’m due at Old Court at eleven, and then I’ve got an indecent exposure in the Marylebone Police Office this afternoon. But in any case, come where, dammit?’

Ben Gully pushed his left hand into the voluminous pocket of his greatcoat. He drew forth a watch and displayed it to me. ‘I’ve been doing the rounds. Putting the word out. There’s a receiver I know, fences all kinds of goods … name of Strauss. He owes me favours. I got this watch by way of him, in an indirect fashion. Came through his hands, to an acquaintance of mine.’

‘So?’

Ben Gully snapped open the back of the hunter and showed me the inscription engraved inside the case. I peered at it, eyes still bleared with drink and foggy with disturbed sleep. ‘What’s it say?’ I asked irritably.

Ben Gully turned the watch so I could see the markings more clearly. ‘There’s a name inscribed there,’ he said quietly.

He paused. ‘Joseph Bartle.’