by Roy Lewis
‘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 b
eaten 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.
By dealing out invective vain
From his instructions false and idle,
The advocate of Running Rein
Proved that his tongue required a bridle.
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.’
