by Roy Lewis
‘Is this a cross-examination or a closing speech?’ I yelled above the growing din and catcalling that had arisen throughout the courtroom. A fight seemed to have broken out on the back tiers and ushers ran forward to separate the struggling men. Infuriated, Baron Alderson was banging his gavel thunderously and when order was finally restored, I knew I’d got it right. He glowered at the Solicitor General.
‘Mr James is correct. This is supposed to be a cross-examination on evidence already given. By all means seek to discredit the witness, but stick to the matters in issue. As for you, Mr James …’ I wasn’t going to have it all my way. Alderson’s jowls were quivering dangerously and his eyes held angry little points of light. ‘I will keep counsel in order in my courtroom. I don’t need your help to do it.’
I acquiesced mildly, sitting down, but well satisfied. Cockburn was watching me with an odd light in his eye.
The Solicitor General had lost control; now he gritted his teeth and attacked Goodman in the witness box. He dredged up the matter of the Haymarket clubs, pressed him about alleged welshing, about incidents of violence at Epsom the previous year. He questioned him about the bribing of trainers and jockeys and the practice of deliberately losing races in order to raise odds at subsequent events. And he questioned him about his general reputation. But he was unable to shake the witness: Goodman remained cool, a slight twitch in his cheek only occasionally betraying the tension he felt, and to all Kelly’s insinuations he merely repeated his denials. It was clear there were no proofs to be forthcoming, and his confidence remained unaffected. Ben Gully had told me Goodman would be a cool customer: Kelly was unable to breach his defences.
And as for the horses named by the Solicitor General, Goodman claimed he had not the faintest idea what was being talked about.
It was almost three in the afternoon before Goodman stood down. It was then I told Cockburn one of our witnesses was missing. It would have been a good time to introduce Bartle, to swear to the colt’s identity and its training in Ireland, in support of Goodman and Wood. But he was not in court. I smelled conspiracy.
We were saved by Baron Alderson. ‘We’ll adjourn for lunch,’ Baron Alderson intoned, and the court rose as he left the bench.
Cockburn leaned towards me, irritably. ‘Try to find out what’s happened to this man Bartle. And these other damned horses Fitzroy Kelly’s referred to … I’ve had no briefing about them.’ He gathered up his papers. ‘In my chambers in twenty minutes, if you please.’
We were there within the half-hour: me, Bulstrode, Ernest Wood and our next witness John Day. Cockburn tapped an impatient finger on the table in front of him. ‘We are going well enough so far but there are issues which cause me anxiety. If we are to adequately represent Mr Wood we need to know what the other side are likely to come up with – and this attack upon our witness Goodman, and the talk of these other animals….’
The corn merchant was clearly out of his depth. He shook his head. ‘Maccabeus … I know that Bentinck made this claim weeks ago but Baron le Tissier ruled it out in the Jockey Club enquiry. As for the others …’
Cockburn sniffed. He turned his head and observed John Day closely. ‘And you, sir, do you know anything about these animals?’
Ben Gully had told me there was little John Day did not know about the skulduggeries of the racing fraternity. Now, the little man hesitated, scratched his lean, lined cheek. ‘There have been rumours….’ He glanced around him. ‘But they’re rumours only. It is said that Mr Goodman did indeed own two colts – Running Rein and Lysander. The one he sold to Mr Wood, here. The other, it is said, was run in someone else’s name, but was really owned by Goodman.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s no way of proving it.’
There was a short silence. ‘So …’ Cockburn said heavily, ‘what about this charge that these horses are not what they seem?’
John Day’s features were expressionless. ‘I don’t know about that, Mr Cockburn. If the Solicitor General says Running Rein is really Maccaebus, and Lysander is really Gladiator, let him prove it. Lysander fell early on, anyway, so it don’t signify much.’
Cockburn sighed, unconvinced. ‘So we’re no further forward.’
‘Before Fitzroy Kelly goes any further, I think it’s time we attacked the other side through Lord George.’ I suggested.
‘By way of your evidence, I believe,’ Cockburn said, sliding a serpentine glance at John Day.
John Day’s eyes narrowed and he licked his lips. He seemed uneasy. ‘There’s no love lost between Lord George and myself.’ He hesitated. ‘He … let me down. I’ll say no more than that. But I know a great deal about Lord George. Some of it I’ve written down for Mr Bulstrode, here. The rest—’
‘The Crucifix case,’ I prompted.
Day nodded. For Cockburn’s benefit I narrated how Bentinck had bet heavily on a horse called Crucifix running for the Oaks, but had put it about that the animal was lamed, until the starting price fell. In the subsequent race he had made a great deal of money. ‘Through fraud and lies.’ I added.
‘You can give evidence of this?’ Cockburn asked Day.
John Day hesitated, then ducked his head unwillingly. There was silence in the room for a little while. I glanced at Bulstrode. The solicitor was sweating profusely. Beside him, Ernest Wood looked thunderstruck: things were getting complicated and he was clearly regretting what he had got himself into by bringing this case against Colonel Peel.
Alexander Cockburn twitched his nostrils and rose slowly to his feet. ‘I think, Mr James, I’ll let you deal with Lord George Bentinck.’
He had seen the way a rush of blood had earlier sent me dancing to my feet. He knew I was young and aggressive. Cockburn had no desire personally to attack the Jockey Club. As for me … I was inexperienced, perhaps reckless. And I had a reputation to establish.
And that really is how the Running Rein case all began to fall apart.
3
The evening session of the court in those days began at five. As was the fashion, Alderson had partaken of a generous lunch in Judges’ Lodgings, including copious quantities of wine, and would have relaxed over the after lunch port. At least, he seemed in a somewhat more mellow mood when we resumed. We had sent runners out to the stables but there was still no sign of Bartle so Cockburn called to the witness box the stable hand John Marsh, who gave evidence supportive of Lewis Goodman’s testimony.
‘Running Rein had been bred in …’
‘Ireland, sir, by Mr Sam McGuire, he it was who brought him across.’
‘And trained him?’
The boy nodded nervously. ‘At Malton, sir, the stables in Yorkshire, and he was then entered to run a few races.’
‘Before he was sold to Mr Wood.’
‘That’s correct, yer honour.’
‘What can you tell us about the age of the horse?’ Cockburn asked sharply.
‘I was allus led to believe, and been told by Mr Wood’s trainer Joe Bartle that Running Rein was a two year old.’
‘Have you ever heard of Maccabeus?’
‘No, sir.’
Cockburn sat down, satisfied and allowed the Solicitor General to rise. Fitzroy Kelly cross-examined the stable boy briefly and contemptuously, implying he was a hired man in the pay of a group of criminals led by Lewis Goodman. Then he sniffed out a weakness in our presentation.
‘And who is this man you mention … Joe Bartle?’
‘The trainer, sir.’
‘The person who averred that the horse was truly a two year old. But he has not been called to give evidence. So this comment of yours is hearsay. So where, pray, is Mr Bartle? Can he not speak for himself?’
There was a short silence. The boy giving evidence seemed frozen. Cockburn rose to his feet. He struggled to conceal his reluctance. ‘The witness is missing, my lord. We hope to call him later.’
‘To come up with the same weak farrago of lies, no doubt,’ the Solicitor General opined. ‘It is what is to be expected. Horses being entered
under assumed names, missing witnesses, a stable boy called to attest to something he’s merely been told …’
‘Stinking fish!’ someone called out from the back of the courtroom, there was a burst of laughter and the Solicitor General waved an arm as though in agreement, and sat down.
Alexander Cockburn had no further questions of Marsh, and dismissed him. He faced the bench. ‘My lord, it is clear that the Solicitor General is of the opinion that Mr Wood, as plaintiff in this case, seeks only the support of those who may be described as unreliable witnesses or of the criminal fraternity. To show that this is not the case, we now wish to call to the witness box someone whom the Solicitor General can surely not suggest is of that ilk … I call Lord George Bentinck.’
There was a moment’s pause, a silence in the courtroom, and then the silence was broken by an outburst from the tiered seats, a stamping of feet and a storm of protest from the Solicitor General and Lord George Bentinck himself.
Empurpled, Fitzroy Kelly jumped to his feet. ‘You can’t do this! This is outrageous…! Lord George is our witness. He will be called to testify in support of Colonel Peel!’
There was shouting and laughter and a rolling about on the benches at the back of the courtroom, while Baron Alderson himself raised his stentorian voice to call for order and Lord Stradbroke’s female acquaintance leaned against his shoulder with her handkerchief to her face. The gavel pounding continued, the crowd roared, fights broke out and Fitzroy Kelly and Lord George Bentinck even ended up shouting at each other. I really quite enjoyed it all. The reporters were scribbling like mad. And we got our way. Even so, it was ten minutes before a grim faced Lord George Bentinck stood in the witness box, facing counsel.
As the noise subsided, Cockburn smiled foxily. ‘I need hardly ask permission of the court to treat Lord George as a hostile witness,’ he began,’ since he has already openly declared his support for Colonel Peel.’
‘Hostile as they come!’ Bentinck snapped angrily, hammering his stick on the floor of the witness box.
Cockburn inclined his narrow head gracefully. ‘Then I will leave the examination of the witness to my learned friend, Mr James.’
My time had come.
I had trained for it. You know, like a lot of other young men seeking a career at the Bar, I had gone first to a school in the Strand which prepared those who wished to appear on the stage. It was the recognized way forward if you sought a life at the Bar. Why? Well, you obtained skills that would stand you in good stead in the courtroom. You learned declamation; you were shown how to project your personality; use exaggeration of movement, the use of the hands, as well as the voice. You seem surprised … lawyers and actors training together? But that’s the reality of it all. In the court room you had to put on as much a performance as you would on the stage. Including lachrymosity. I’m proud to say I was as good a weeper as anyone at the Bar. And in addition, they taught you fencing. There was a lot of it on the stage in those days. Though I have to admit I was never lissom, even as a young man. But I learned the basics.
And fencing, it helped in dealing with a witness: you must treat witness examination almost like a duel, for it is much like using an epee or a sabre. Prick and cut and slash. But cross-examination, like examination of a hostile witness, now that is something else again. You can’t be trained to do it. You must have it in you. You know, would you believe that in my later career I was the most feared cross examiner in the Old Bailey? When I rose to my feet, strong men would pale; admirals would lower their colours; generals would bugle a hasty retreat. Tears would flow, copiously, at my inferences, doggedness, and cutting remarks. More than a few ladies fainted, from my questions rather than their stays. I once brought on a heart attack in a witness. It’s all about cutting and pricking, and then digging in your claws, you see: stripping flesh, if you like, tearing off strips of skin, slowly, deliberately, painfully. I’ve had grown men crying in front of me, even vomiting before they faced me in the box. Charlie Dickens might have held me up to ridicule later in A Tale of Two Cities, but I tell you, if I’d ever got him in the box over his rumoured relationship with his sister-in-law Georgina Hogarth, or that affair he had with his actress Nelly Ternan … well, the sparks would have flown.
Ah, well. Lost opportunities. A forensic duel with Dickens … it would have been a sensation, but it never happened.
But that day I stood up to face Lord George Bentinck in an expectant courtroom. Even in those early days I dressed carefully for the appearance before a judge. Everyone needs a certain air … I always affected white gloves in the courtroom: it was a little dandyism that I enjoyed, and I now showed them the mannerisms that were to make my name: I spent a moment fiddling with my white gloves, twitched my gown back over my hips and placed one hand on the bench in front of me. I glanced around the room, with a confident air, keeping them all waiting, even the scowling judge. It’s style that does it, you see … style.
‘Fraud, falsehood, selfishness and greed. Is that how you would describe what this hearing is about, Lord George?’
‘You’ve summed it up in a nutshell, as far as your side is concerned,’ Bentinck sneered.
I ignored the comment. ‘You’re very active at the Turf, are you not?’
‘I own a stud. I race them.’
‘How much did you win on your horse Mango, in the ’37 St Leger?’
Bentinck hesitated, taken aback. He blinked, then shrugged carelessly. ‘It’s well enough known. Fourteen thousand pounds.’
After the gasp died down in the courtroom, in the ensuing silence I asked, ‘How much did you win at this year’s Derby?’
‘Not as much as I had expected.’
‘Because Running Rein won and your horses came nowhere.’
‘Because a fraud was perpetrated on Colonel Peel. The horse was a ringer.’
‘And you had already protested this?’ I asked gently.
‘Of course.’
‘To the Stewards of Epsom. Was there an enquiry?’
As I’d hoped, Bentinck grew warm. ‘There was. But Baron le Tissier was misinformed from the outset. He took the word of Mr Wood as a gentleman, even though I told him that it was that damned Jew Levy Goodman who was behind the scenes on this one. I know what goes on in racing, I know all about the bribery and the corruption, the falsehoods and the nobbling, and there were plenty or rumours—’
‘So are you suggesting that Baron le Tissier, as chairman of the enquiry, was guilty of dishonest motives in reaching his decision?’
Bentinck glowered at me. ‘Of course not! I never said that!’
‘You were dissatisfied with the result of the enquiry,’ I suggested.
‘Of course. I knew that damned horse wasn’t the Malton colt—’
‘And it was you who pushed Colonel Peel into welshing on his bets after the race was run.’
‘I advised him, as a friend, that he had been subjected to a monstrous fraud, perpetrated by that evil Jew trickster Goodman—’
‘This had nothing to do with pique, or revenge because you had lost money on the race?’
‘Certainly not!’
‘So what was your motive?’
‘Friendship!’ Bentinck roared, empurpling, losing control of himself. ‘A desire to see justice!’
‘The avoidance of fraud?’
‘Of course!’
‘The avoidance of fraud and falsehood and selfish corrupt greed?’
‘Certainly!’
I set the trap. ‘So you see yourself as the Conscience of the Turf? You feel that you must press this case, to clean up the sport, to make an example of someone you regard as a rogue?’
Bentinck saw the jaws open in front of him. He hesitated, prevaricated. ‘Colonel Peel brought this action on his own account.’
I raised my voice, waved a white-gloved hand, appealing to the muttering crowd on the benches, fanning their mood. ‘But only under pressure from you, and others. Who are the others, may I ask? What sinister syndicate is ther
e behind this disgraceful action against my client? How much have you all lost, in your secretive cabal? Could you not take your losses like men? Did you have to visit this foul calumny on my client simply out of pique at losing vast sums of money? You claim our witness Goodman is a rogue. But is not a man who welshes also a rogue?’
The stamping of feet started again. Bentinck’s face flamed with anger and his fingers gripped the edge of the witness box. His voice came out almost as a roar. ‘You impugn my honour, sir! When gentlemen place stakes on a race it is done in an honourable way! I resent your implications that we have grouped to attack an honest man. It is Goodman who is behind all this and I swear that I’ll get him booted off every race track in the country before I’ve finished with him!’
A crescendo of hissing and whistling arose behind him and the incensed baronet turned and shook his fist at the mob on the upper tiers. This only served to increase the noise and Baron Alderson hammered ineffectually at the table for almost a minute before the noise subsided. The judge’s eye was beady with malice when he turned it on me.
‘Mr James. I agreed you could treat the witness as hostile. But this badgering must stop. I trust you will stick to the issues that should be before us: the identity of the animal known as Running Rein!’ He glowered at me. ‘No more red herrings.’
The mention of red herrings had drawn catcalls from the mob. The noise fanned my own excitement. I knew the crowd was behind me, and there’d be headlines in The Times tomorrow. I was not now prepared to give way.
‘The fact is that a foul slander has been raised and spread about my client. His colt won the Derby fairly. Colonel Peel, out of pocket and out of temper, was persuaded by Lord George Bentinck and his syndicate, to welsh on the bets. Lord George points the finger at our witness Goodman, but I point the finger at Lord George. He holds himself up to be the saviour of the honour of the Turf, the cleanser of the Augean stable of vice and corruption and unfair dealing. But I now intend to prove that there is another man behind the mask. I intend to prove fraud, falsehood, selfishness, on the part of the man who is seeking to claim such behaviour on the part of my client, and my witness! More, I have it in my power to prove bribery—’
