by Roy Lewis
Once the jostling on the benches had subsided the learned judge glowered around at his kingdom and invited Alexander Cockburn to open in Wood v Peel.
As always, my foxy little leader was clear, concise and relevant, indulged in no wild rhetoric, but he was so brief that I wondered whether he had another case pending elsewhere and was eager to get away. Even so the courtroom listened with interest as they heard Cockburn claim that Ernest Wood, the corn merchant from Epsom, had bought the colt Running Rein and entered it in the Derby.
‘The animal had a good pedigree,’ he said, ‘and I will shortly prove that the dispute between Mr Wood and Lord George Bentinck had really arisen prior to the running of the Derby. The reason behind the dispute? Not the age of the animal that eventually won, the dispute had arisen because Lord George had a runner in the race, was concerned about the form of his animal, feared the danger presented by Mr Wood’s entry, and so earlier conspired to prevent the entry of Running Rein by unfounded claims. But he failed in his attempt. Later, after the race was run and his own horses lost, he persuaded the Jockey Club to support Colonel Peel in a refusal to honour bets made against the winning animal.’
Baron Alderson was already unhappy. He shifted uncomfortably on the Bench, glowered at Cockburn and sniffed. ‘I wonder whether learned counsel would make something clear to me,’ he growled.
‘Certainly, my lord.’
‘Precisely who is supposed to be the defendant in this case?’
‘Colonel Peel, my lord.’
‘From your opening remarks you would seem to be suggesting that it is Lord George Bentinck who should be the defendant, but I see his name nowhere in the pleadings.’
Cockburn’s thin nostrils were pinched. ‘There is a thought that Lord George Bentinck should be the real defendant in the case—’
The Solicitor General jumped up to intervene. Small, plump, soft-fingered, fussy of dress, precise of diction and careful of language, Fitzroy Kelly was one of those men who had got on at the bar in an uncommon fashion, by marrying the ugly daughter of a judge. Though come to think of it most daughters of judges are ugly … Kelly was also one of those benchers of the Inner Temple who did for me, years later, with trumped up charges. I disliked him in 1844: my dislike grew over the years.
That day in the Exchequer Court he exuded his usual air of finicky self-confidence. ‘As your lordship rightly points out, Lord George Bentinck is not a defendant here: the issue is a clear cut one, which Colonel Peel will defend to the death. The colt known as Running Rein is nothing but a—’
‘Mr Kelly, I need no assistance from you,’ Baron Alderson interrupted sourly, raising one hand. ‘You will have your opportunity for argument later.’
Unabashed, Fitzroy Kelly regained his seat. But he always was a thick-skinned man. Applepip Kelly he was called, after making the preposterous defence in one poisoning case that the deceased had passed away as a result of eating apples.
As Cockburn continued his opening speech, I glanced across to the tiered witness seats. Ernest Wood, the plaintiff, was there, pale, his mouth uncertain, clearly unnerved by the situation. A great deal had been said of recent weeks: innuendos had flown about; it was understood he had been cut by certain members of the Jockey Club and some of the gentry had implied that he was lowering himself in the eyes of polite society, bringing this case against the Prime Minister’s brother. But there was a doggedness about his eyes, I noted: he had steeled himself to see it through. His honour had been impugned: Colonel Peel had welshed on a bet.
Beside Wood sat a small, wiry man with a bald head and fashionable muttonchop whiskers. He had quick, intelligent eyes and a tanned, wrinkled skin: a man of the outdoors. He was leaning sideways, listening to a lean, younger man with short cropped hair. I checked his witness list: the younger man would be John Marsh, a stable boy we would be calling to testify as to the age of the colt; the older, clean-shaven individual was the man Ben Gully had traced and persuaded to come to court.
John Day.
There should have been another witness from the stables, but I could not pick him out. As I looked around I saw that Ben Gully himself was in court, quietly tucked away on one of the end seats where he could escape the court easily if proceedings became boring, or his presence was required elsewhere. I nodded briefly: Gully rolled his errant eye at me in silent acknowledgement.
Seated behind John Day was Lewis Goodman.
Goodman cut an impressive figure. He was tall, clean-shaven and slimly built, with athletic shoulders and a dark, somewhat swarthy skin. His smooth black hair was thick, neatly swept back on his head. He was of an almost Mediterranean appearance, the flash kind that would appeal to the ladies. His coat was expensively cut, a collar of velvet, the overall appearance fashionably moderate, apart from the heavy gold chain that adorned his vest. He would like gold, this man. Heavy eyebrows shielded Goodman’s eyes which seemed almost black. He caught my glance and held it, raised one eyebrow, riveting my attention. There was a certain appraisal in his eyes. Before I looked away, I noted that a slight smile touched his firm, confident mouth; it was as though he had summed up my character, filed away in his mind a picture of who and what I was. It made me feel uncomfortable as I turned away, leaned forward, to pay attention to Cockburn’s opening.
I kept glancing back in a surreptitious manner, seeking out Goodman for a while, irritated by the impression he had made on me. I tried to match his attitude by making my own summation of the man. I concluded he was a little too elegant, too well dressed, too confident in his air of cool confidence. He was almost flash, as though he was trying too hard; his rolled collar waistcoat was not flamboyant but its cut was too precise and his satin stock was a little too rich for my taste, as was the diamond pin that gleamed on his breast. Lewis Goodman was a gentleman trying to prove he was a gentleman, and there would be reasons for that. I had heard some of those reasons lay in the dark corners of the Haymarket and the Strand, and at Epsom; they were backed by a clientele that would use him but perhaps never approve of him.
Ben Gully had said he was a dangerous man.
It was just then I began to feel uneasy, as I looked away and glanced around the packed benches. I still couldn’t locate the missing witness. I inclined my head towards Bulstrode, seated behind me. He leaned forward, eagerly. I tapped my brief with an irritated finger. ‘I’ve got a name … Bartle. Where is he?’
Bulstrode grimaced, glanced sideways to John Day and wriggled unhappily. ‘I regret … it seems he has not put in an appearance this morning.’
‘Where the devil is he?’
‘No one seems to know. He works at Running Rein’s stables, but he just hasn’t turned up this morning to give evidence.’
I was far from pleased, I can tell you. Even in those relatively inexperienced days I never did like missing witnesses. They were like unseen shore cannon to a man-o’-war: they could send an over-confident ship to the bottom of the sea. I went back to my brief and the notes that Ben Gully had provided concerning John Day. Perhaps we wouldn’t need the missing stable hand, Joe Bartle. He was only there to support the evidence to be given by Lewis Goodman. He was there for corroboration, but even so his non-appearance made me nervous.
I waited as Cockburn wound up his opening statement. He then called Ernest Wood. We soon got to the nub of the matter, as the mob drummed impatient feet on the tiered benches.
Ernest Wood was sweating, but determined in his evidence. ‘Prior to the race large sums of money had been laid upon horses other than my own – notably, Orlando and Ionian. When I proclaimed the intention of entering Running Rein I was informed that a protest had been lodged.’
‘By whom?’ Cockburn asked, glancing around the courtroom theatrically.
‘Lord George Bentinck.’
‘Why do you think such a protest was lodged?’
‘Because Lord George—’
‘My lord,’ the Solicitor General rose to his feet, twitching his robe about his plump thighs in a pomp
ous gesture. ‘Mr Wood is in no position to describe the state of mind of Lord George.’
When Baron Alderson agreed grumpily Cockburn smiled. ‘I waive the question. The matter can be dealt with later. Please continue, Mr Wood. What happened then?’
‘The protest was taken to the Committee of the Jockey Club.’
‘What was the result of the objection?’
‘It was refused.’
‘And then?’
‘The rest is a matter of undisputed fact,’ Wood said stoutly. ‘Running Rein was permitted to run and won the Derby. Colonel Peel’s horses Orlando and Ionian lost. And then, to my surprise, Colonel Peel refused to honour his bets. I was thus forced to bring this action.’
‘The details of the betting, and the amounts involved, are to be seen in the affidavits, my lord,’ Cockburn drawled. He began to go through the individual amounts until Fitzroy Kelly rose and announced airily that the amounts of the debts were not in dispute. I could guess why: he didn’t want the extent of Bentinck’s betting, and interest in disputing the identity of Running Rein to be emphasized in open court. The mob didn’t like it and feet drummed again. Baron Alderson scowled them to silence.
As Cockburn ended his examination, the Solicitor General rose to cross examine the corn merchant, and as might be expected, went straight to what the other side saw as the point in issue.
‘How long did you own the horse before entering it for the Derby?’
‘Three months.’
‘From whom did you purchase the animal?’
‘A Mr Lewis Goodman.’
‘And what was the ground on which Colonel Peel has refused to honour the bets placed?’
Wood hesitated, flushing. ‘He claimed that Running Rein was not eligible since it was in reality a four year old.’
‘Thank you.’
Fitzroy Kelly sat down. He had made no reference to the enquiry before the Committee of the Jockey Club. It was something we could use to twist the knife.
Cockburn nodded to me to deal with re-examination. I rose and smiled at Wood, putting him more at ease, injecting some confidence into him, even though the blood was hammering in my own veins. My first big opportunity, with a baying mob and a courtroom full of reporters….
‘Is Running Rein a four year old, Mr Wood?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘And are you alone in your opinion?’
‘I have the animal’s pedigree from Mr Goodman.’
‘And this claim of Colonel Peel … that the horse is really a four year old, had not this claim been dealt with elsewhere previously? Had it not already been answered on a previous occasion?’
‘Of course,’ Wood said quickly, recognizing my drift. ‘It was the substance of the protest made prior to the race, to the Jockey Club, by Lord George Bentinck.’
‘Which was …’
‘Refused, sir.’ Indignantly, Ernest Wood appealed to the judge. ‘The Stewards of the Jockey Club supported me, but Colonel Peel still refused to pay out after the race was won, because of the insistence of Lord George Bentinck!’
A storm of hissing and catcalling broke out as the unruly mob at the back of the room stamped their feet and expressed their support of the corn merchant against the might of the racing aristocracy. Bentinck was scarlet-faced with anger as he leaned forward, thick fingers clamped on his gold-topped walking stick. Baron Alderson hammered at the bench, and the lady seated beside him fluttered her fan while her companion Lord Stradbroke leaned forward to assure her all was well and this scene would not be comparable in its conclusion to the storming of the Bastille. When the noise finally subsided, I sat down and Wood was released from the witness box.
Cockburn smiled slightly at me, nodded, satisfied with the uproar, and then rose to his feet. It was time to call Lewis Goodman.
Goodman was well over six feet in height. There was a great deal of chattering in the courtroom and it was evident that his appearance was well recognized by the sporting fraternity who were present. The ladies in particular leaned forward to get a better view of the witness. There was a certain amount of fan-fluttering and sighing, amid a great deal of cat-calling from the mob.
Cockburn took Goodman through his evidence quickly. Goodman stated that the colt had been bred in Ireland where it had been trained by one Sam McGuire. Mr McGuire was presently in Ireland and was unable to be present at the hearing. Goodman had bought the animal as a one year old and had trained it. The man he had employed as trainer was one Joseph Bartle….
I ground my teeth, feeling a premonition again: Joe Bartle, the missing witness.
Goodman stated he had bought the animal at Malton in Yorkshire. He had run it at York and Chester before selling it for personal reasons to Ernest Wood. He was able to present Mr Wood with a full pedigree for the animal. He himself had placed certain bets on Running Rein for the Derby, but he agreed he had also placed bets on other horses. He was aware of the enquiry into the horse’s age by the Jockey Club and fully supported their conclusion: he had provided them with reports and they had confirmed that the animal was indeed a two-year-old colt. He had no connections either with Mr Wood or Colonel Peel beyond those he had stated. He had no financial interest in the case itself: his own bets had been settled as matters of honour. He smiled when the crowd hissed at the implication: the Prime Minister’s brother was not a man of honour.
‘Give it to ‘em, Goody!’ someone yelled at the back of the courtroom as his evidence was concluded. There was a further brief outburst of cheerful pandemonium before the ushers restored order. Two members of the swell mob were expelled, as I recall.
The Solicitor General rose, tugging at his gown, and shuffling the sheaf of papers in his hand. He paused for a little while, allowing the air of expectation to grow about him: I liked that touch. Fitzroy Kelly looked up finally, puffed out his pigeon chest and gave the witness a thin smile.
‘Your name, sir?’
‘Lewis Goodman.’
Kelly frowned, made a play of consulting the sheets in his hands. ‘Lewis Goodman … But here I have … surely it is Levy Goodman?’
Goodman’s eyes hardened. ‘No, sir.’
‘You’ve changed your name, then.’
‘I have not.’
Fitzroy Kelly affected a puzzled frown, and shook his head doubtfully. ‘Perhaps I have been misinformed … Mr Goodman, you are of the Christian persuasion?’
‘I am.’
‘Not of the Jewish faith?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t owe allegiance to the synagogue rather than the—’
Alexander Cockburn rose almost lazily, uncoiling himself from his seat. ‘My lord, I must protest this line of questioning. In seeking to ascertain the identity of a horse it can be of no relevance whether or not Mr Goodman is a practising member of the Church of England – or any other, for that matter.’
The Solicitor General waved a dismissive hand at the objection. ‘It is a matter of veracity, rather than religion, that I seek to place before the court, but no matter … Mr Goodman, do you have any interest in a club called Rouget’s, in Castle Street?’
‘I do. But it is an eating house, not a club.’
‘Whereas the premises in Panton Street are best described as a … night house?’
Goodman paused, a thin smile on his lips. The diamond pin sparkled on his vest. He remained at ease when he replied, ‘A place of entertainment.’
There was a drumming of feet from the mob and approving laughter.
‘A place of entertainment … of a certain kind. Are you aware the night house in question is normally referred to as Goody Levy’s?’ Kelly displayed a feral smile. ‘A distinctly Jewish name, would you not agree? A name derived from your own, as proprietor?’
‘My lord—’ Cockburn began to rise once more to his feet.
Fitzroy Kelly beat him to it. ‘I am merely attempting to sketch for the benefit of the court the reputation of the gentlemen who calls himself Lewis Goodman. But I can move o
n to perhaps more relevant matters which will equally well serve the purpose. Mr Goodman, have you ever been banned from a racecourse?’
‘Never.’
‘Have you ever appeared before an enquiry of the Jockey Club?’
‘Twice.’ Goodman raised an eyebrow and gave a confident smile. ‘Successfully.’
‘You place heavy wagers at the races?’
‘I do – as do most noble lords present today in this courtroom. Heavy wagers, yes. But certainly not as much as Lord George Bentinck.’
There was laughter at the back of the court and a further drumming of feet. Fitzroy Kelly was annoyed, and pressed on sharply. ‘Do you know of a horse called Maccabeus?’
‘I do not.’
‘Or Gladiator?’
I’d been well briefed by Ben Gully. There was danger here. Cockburn was silent, so I lunged to my feet. ‘This hearing is about a horse called Running Rein!’
Fitzroy Kelly rounded on me. He gave me what he considered to be a withering glance. I remained unwithered as he continued, ‘No, sir, it is about an animal called Maccabeus masquerading under another name – that of Running Rein. And it is also about a horse called Gladiator, entered under the name Lysander—’
‘My lord, my confusion must equal your own!’ I protested to the Bench.
But Fitzroy Kelly was launched. ‘I intend to prove that Running Rein is what the sporting fraternity describe as a ringer – an animal substituted for another. I intend to prove that the horse entered as Running Rein is really a four year old called Maccabeus; that there was another horse entered as Lysander when it was really Gladiator; that both animals were once owned by Lewis Goodman, and that the man in the witness box, who lies about his own name and identity is guilty of perpetrating a criminal conspiracy—’
