by Roy Lewis
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.
Chapter Two
1
I MET BEN GULLY at the Blue Posts Inn. A man of the world yourself, you might have heard of the establishment … no?
The Blue Posts was down at the lower end of the Haymarket. During the day it served as an ordinary public house but after the closing of the theatres and the dancing halls in the evening it changed its character notably and became a regular adjournment place for those still seeking entertainment. At midnight the passage from the outside door and the large space in front of the bar was packed with pleasure-seekers, and men and women thronged the stairs leading to the upper rooms. There was always a roar and a din in the thick, confused atmosphere, reeking with spirits and tobacco, but the Scots couple who kept the inn maintained a tight control within the limits they set. During the day, it was quiet, and thinly frequented.
It was the reason why I arranged our meeting there.
My boy, I need to tell you about Ben Gully, who did much work for me in those days. A man of consequence. He wasn’t a tall man, perhaps five feet six in height and his overall build made him seem even shorter. He had a thick neck and broad shoulders, a chest like an armoire, a cicatriced forehead in a face that had been rearranged from time to time, and the kind of legs that wouldn’t stop a pig in a passage. He had fists like hams, and his knuckles were knobbled and scarred. There lurked in his eyes a cynical appreciation of the artifices of man, and it was clear from his demeanour that he was one well experienced in the darker activities of the metropolis.
Ben Gully was a man of knowledge. The throbbing heart of the London underworld lay at Ben Gully’s fingertips. He knew all the larcenous families who flourished in Whitechapel, and those who carried out the acts of highway robbery, burglary and shop-breaking in Whitechapel, Southwark and Lambeth. He could explain how the parish of St James was notable for drunkenness, prostitution and vagrancy while Clerkenwell harboured the horse-stealers under the control of a ring led by a man from Smithfield. He could point out the centres for coining and uttering counterfeit coin, run by two Jewish brothers, in Covent Garden; he knew the embezzlers of Islington, the arsonists in Marylebone and could identify the thirty two illegal pawnshops in Mile End and Lambeth. He knew who frequented the fourpenny brothels in Lambeth, and was well aware of what went on in 60 and 64 Regents Quadrant. Curious sexual activities I can tell you … but that is another story.
Ben reckoned the smelliest part of London was Bermondsey: the south bank opposite the Tower of London was where the dog turds gathered by street urchins were used to tan skins and hides into leather, but the most dangerous area of the lot was Clerkenwell, because of the murders and manslaughters committed there. He could quote verbatim the reports of the Constabulary Commissioners who had access to the main sources of information, but his own network of informers and spies, vagrants, thieves and cutpurses gave him a wide range of additional information to supplement official returns.
He was proud of his knowledge and achievements. I had been informed at one time that Gully had spent his early years among the wooden galleries and tidal ditches of Jacob’s Island, lived in cheap lodging houses down at the Docks and it was said that at one time he had robbed and assaulted with the best of them, emerging from the rookeries and vanishing again into their depths when the alarm was raised. But he got caught in the end, of course, by Inspector Whicher himself, on a charge of passing counterfeit bills. Charlie Dickens wrote about Whicher, you know – called him Witchem. And that sly, womanising reprobate Wilkie Collins, now – he used Whicher as the model for the rozzer in that book of his … what was it called? The Moonshine, that’s right. Or something like that. Inspector Cuff, Collins called him…. The charge against Ben Gully was trumped up by Whicher, naturally. Ben assured me that he had never in his life handled forged bills – but he couldn’t complain because he’d had a long run.
Still, the spell in prison and the treadmill and the cockchafer convinced him there were better ways to earn a living for a man with his knowledge and understanding of the stews of London. Over the years he’d turned that understanding and knowledge of the London underworld to better account. He was now an enforcer, a purveyor of information, a servant to all those who wanted information and could pay for it. A boon for a lawyer seeking information. I was one of them.
And that’s why I arranged to meet him. I had recognized specialist talents when I saw them, even then, as a young man. Though I have to admit it was Serjeant Wilkins who first introduced me to him.
‘It’s a delicate matter, Ben,’ I announced with an air of caution, after I had outlined the case in which I had been briefed. I leaned back in my chair in the quiet corner away from the bar in the main room of the Blue Posts and waited for Gully’s response.
Ben had the ability to swivel one eye alarmingly to make an important point. He made use of that unique facility at that moment. ‘You want me to find out about the man who sold Mr Wood the horse. You’re talking about Lewis Goodman. That’s a matter that’s not just delicate, it’s dangerous.’
‘Come now, you exaggerate,’ I replied in an airy tone. ‘All I’m asking is that you let me have whatever information you can dredge up on Goodman. I’ve heard of him, of course, as a result of his ownership of night houses, but rumours are vague. If you could place a few discreet questions here and there so I can have the background information that’ll be useful in the court hearing, I’d be much obliged.’
Gully frowned thoughtfully. ‘You want to attack him in court?’
‘No, no, certainly not! The likelihood is that the Solicitor General may attempt to impugn his reputation. I don’t want our side to be caught out by any information the Solicitor General may have up his sleeve.’
Ben Gully scratched at a recent scab on his shaven skull. A fracas down at Rotherhithe, I’d been led to believe. He shook his head in doubt. ‘I doubt there’ll be much for the Solicitor General to go on, apart from rumour. Lewis Goodman is a smart character, a slippery customer who keeps all his affairs at a distance. He don’t get caught with fingers in tills. He’s sharp, Mr James – too sharp for flats like the Solicitor General.’
‘But not too sharp for Ben Gully, hey?’ I encouraged him with a wink.
Gully brought his errant eye back under control and observed me sourly. ‘You can forget the
flattery, Mr James. I’m telling you Lewis Goodman is dangerous. He’s got interests and connections in London at all levels and some of those connections can be violent. A lot of people owe him, and he’s a man who collects his debts … one way or another.’
‘You sound as if you’re afraid of him, Ben.’
Ben Gully hunched his powerful shoulders. He did not care for the raillery in my tone. He wrinkled his battered nose and looked down, as though inspecting his clothing. On this occasion he was dressed soberly, like an undistinguished clerk in the City. But I’d caught sight of him at Epsom occasionally, dressed as one of the swell mob. I’d also seen him recently emerged from the rookeries where he’d been in search of information: on such occasions he was almost unrecognizable from the neatly attired man in front of me now. He dressed the part for the job in hand. But he didn’t like the comment I’d made and he scowled. ‘I’m not afraid of anyone, Mr James, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know when to go careful, like.’
‘Then go careful by all means,’ I replied, sipping my brandy and water. ‘But find out what you can, so I can be prepared against eventualities. And then there’s the other end of the scale.’
‘Such as?’
‘What do you know about Lord George Bentinck? I don’t mean about his activities in Parliament – I mean his activities on the Turf.’
‘Depends what you want to know, Mr James,’ Ben Gully said, eyeing me carefully.
I wanted there to be no room for mistake. I leaned forward confidentially. ‘Look here, Ben. I’m pretty sure Bentinck is behind the attack on my client. He’s the man who’s stiffened Colonel Peel’s determination to bring the case. And he may be able to prove some sharp dealing went on. But he’s been involved with the Turf for years. And that can only mean that his own hands won’t be entirely clean!’ I snorted contemptuously. ‘He announces to the world that he intends to expose the corrupt practices and behaviour of those who frequent the races, but from time to time there have been rumours … For instance, I heard at one stage that he himself ran a number of horses under assumed names – Jones, Edwards, Bencliffe …’
‘Nothing illegal about that, Mr James. And I heard tell it was because he didn’t want his ancient father to know how deeply involved with racing he was. It’s out in the open now, anyway, that old story.’ Gully scratched at his broken nose thoughtfully. ‘There’s no mileage to be gained in starting that hare.’
‘But there are other … hares?’
Gully shrugged. ‘When a man regularly frequents the race track, or the Berkeley Club for roulette and chicken hazard, there’s always the likelihood of hares.’ His errant eye swivelled in my direction.
I smiled ruefully and winked, so that Gully knew the shot had gone home. He would be aware of my own recent losses at chicken hazard at Almack’s. I watched Gully carefully for a few moments. ‘As far as Lord George is concerned, I did hear a rumour, something … somewhere … about a horse called Crucifix, a year or so ago.’
Gully shrugged. ‘There was some kind of story going the rounds, as I recall.’
‘You could find out if Bentinck was up to something fishy. Something I could use to discredit him in court if he gets up and starts spouting about morality and honour….’
‘Aye, I could ask around. The jockeys, the trainers, the stable boys … they’ll know a few things, I don’t doubt.’ He eyed me warily. ‘But it won’t come cheap. It’ll cost, Mr James.’
‘Don’t it always?’ I smiled and finished my brandy and water. ‘And it usually costs more when there are tight time scales involved, ain’t that so?’
‘When do you want the information?’ Gully asked, nodding.
‘The hearing is set for mid-July.’
Gully frowned. ‘That is tight, Mr James.’
‘Too tight?’
‘Not at the right price.’
‘It’ll be paid, Ben, never worry,’ I replied, nodding, and rising to my feet.
Not that I’d use all of Bulstrode’s silver, of course. An appropriate commission would be deducted for myself. But, as I shouldered my way out of the bar of the Blue Posts and passed the grimy window, I looked back to the hunched shape of the man seated inside. Ben Gully had not moved from his position: he had remained seated in the quiet corner, staring moodily at his beer. He seemed constrained. And yet I knew he would normally take pleasure in bringing down one of the aristocracy. Lord George was a preening, arrogant man who’d made enemies enough. I guessed Ben Gully would enjoy slipping some of the mask aside to help expose Bentinck for what he was.
But it was clear he thought Lewis Goodman was another kettle of fish entirely. It would account for his gloomy expression as he stared at his beer. Ben glanced up, saw me staring at him through the window. His eyes fixed on mine and then, involuntarily, he shivered suddenly, as though someone had walked over his grave.
A presentiment.
Presentiments are wonderful things, my boy. I’ve had a few when I had certain cards in my hand. Trouble is, they rarely came off as you’d expect. So I shrugged this one off. All I could think of was the glittering career ahead of me if I could pin a prominent member of the Jockey Club Committee to the wall. But there you are: when a man’s riding young, and full of confidence, he don’t realize all the ditches there may be in front of him. And he’s likely to tumble in more than one of those damned ditches, believe me.
As I did.
2
I was talking to your mother about you last night, about some of the voyages you took down Valparaiso way, and she tells me you don’t like the climate here in England. Different from South America! I am forced to admit, here in 1880, it’s been wet and miserable of late, with the yellow fog, and the infernal stink from the Thames – they only did half the job, you know, after I’d protested in the House of Commons, in my days as Marylebone’s MP, about the state of the sewage in the river. Mind you, it was really bad then, in the 50s … in those days we had to wrap our lower faces in vinegar-soaked kerchiefs…. That was when I had built up a considerable reputation at the Old Bailey and was sought by all. … A long time ago.
But I digress.
The weather was different, the time I’m talking about. In fact, it was hot and dry that summer of 1844. The sunshine seemed perpetual. June saw no hint of rain. In between hearings at the Thames Police Court I used to enjoy the air in the Temple Gardens, away from the noise of the river traffic and the hurly burly of Fleet Street. But by the time the case came on in early July, I had no leisure for the Temple Gardens: the weather had still not broken and the avenues leading to Westminster Hall were crowded as people from all walks of life converged on the Exchequer Court, which was where Wood v Peel had been scheduled. To get to court I had to muscle my way past journalists and pie sellers, fruit stalls and print makers and all the other riff raff who shared Westminster Hall with the lawyers in those days. Inside the vast hall there was quite a hustling: Jockey Custance made an early appearance, paying at the door for entrance to a good seat, and an unobstructed view of the entertainment. Others of the sporting fraternity were shouldering their way about, various members of the swell mob had made an appearance, and then, a little later when the carriages arrived at the steps there were deposited numerous gentlemen of note, members of the Ten Thousand, with their ladies legitimate and illicit fluttering fans, pink with the excitement of the occasion.
In the courtroom itself there was a certain amount of not so good-natured stamping, hissing and catcalling when Lord George Bentinck himself made his appearance. He was never popular with the mob. It was all an entertainment, you see. Was, and still is. And in those days you even had to pay to get in unless you were one of the principal actors in the drama, like me.
The old courts have gone now, but in those days the Exchequer was wider than the other designated rooms in Westminster Hall, and boasted tiered seats for counsel, witnesses and the public so all could obtain a good view of what was going on. I beat my way through the sweating, noisy crowd and too
k my seat beside Alexander Cockburn on the open, front row. I noted that the Solicitor General was already seated at the far end, poring over his brief, flanked by two junior counsel I vaguely recognized. Lord George Bentinck had taken a seat beside him. Baron le Tissier and Colonel Peel were seated stiffly in the row behind.
I’d arrived early because the benches allocated to the barristers employed were sometimes seized by idlers who were difficult to dislodge before the judge made his appearance on the bench. As it was, I’d been forced physically to eject one importunate, half-inebriated fellow who seemed to think he was in his rights, lounging on the bench with his half-soled boots on the table in front of him, before I could take my place. Bulstrode and one of his clerks were in the row just behind us.
I can still almost feel the way it was that day. There had been a late sitting the previous night: the air was still thick, odorous and musty and the dilapidated walls of the courtroom were damp. Mind you, I’ve seen the walls running with water on other occasions because the ventilation was so abominable, but by arriving early we were granted the leisure to inspect the dingy pictorial nudities which had been sketched on the peeling walls by bored witnesses, suitors or unemployed barristers the previous evening. Some of them were quite inventive, even to my experienced eye … it’s surprising what one could learn about life from the Exchequer Court walls. Though I have to say that the walls of the Old Bailey were even more instructive.
The courtroom filled up rapidly and the babble of noise was reaching a crescendo as the mob fought for the remaining seats. Like all the courts, the Exchequer was as I told you, a place of entertainment for the idle. And they knew Wood v Peel could well prove entertaining enough to the mob.
Baron Alderson took his seat on the Bench at precisely nine o’clock. He was a seasoned product of the Northern Circuit, a large, heavy man who gave the impression he was only half as pleased with himself as he had reason to be. He was a man of uncertain temper who was reputed to have a sense of humour. I never experienced it. Certainly, that morning he was clearly ill-tempered to a particular degree: his florid features were more flushed than usual and there was a malicious glitter in his eye. Bed bugs perhaps, or a female termagant with an even sharper bite. Rumour had it he was ruled by his wife, at home. He made up for that domestic humiliation in his courtroom by his treatment of counsel. His expression that morning made me feel the riding would be hard. Alderson was a strait-laced individual who was known to have little sympathy for or understanding of the sporting fraternity, and held decided, somewhat puritanical views about their reported behaviour.
