Dead Ringer

by Roy Lewis

  Thoughts of Harriet, the image of her lifeless body in the mud of the river bank, the last view I had had of her when she was alive, they returned to my mind throughout the early evening, even though I knew there was nothing I could do for her. But a few glasses of brandy and water in my chambers and a refreshing cigar helped to settle my nerves as I dressed in preparation for my evening meeting.

  The appointment had been arranged for me by my grandfather. It was to be dinner at the Carlton Club with one of its more eminent members.

  I’ve always appreciated the existence of gentlemen’s clubs: they are oases of quiet conviviality where a man can feel at home without entering the bonds of matrimony.

  I was already a member of White’s, and Almack’s, where I did much of my gambling and I enjoyed the company of actors, writers and painters at the Garrick but it was towards Carlton House Terrace, the home of the Tory grandees that I made my way that evening. The meeting was to be with an old gambling acquaintance of my grandfather’s: the Earl of Wilton.

  Politics was something I was always interested in … not least because when you’re a professional young man seeking preferment it’s more than necessary that one should rub shoulders with those who rule the country and make decisions that affect all professional lives. Many of the members of the House of Commons came from aristocratic backgrounds and could afford to while away their time in the House, having nothing better to do. But of recent years a growing number of lawyers had succeeded in elections to the Commons and I had it in mind to follow them … for that was the route to political preferment and the highest honours of the profession: Solicitor General, Attorney General, even Lord Chancellor of England. All political appointments.

  And, equally important from my point of view, there was the fact that Members of Parliament could not be arrested and imprisoned for debt. Of course, I hadn’t yet reached the stage where imprisonment for failing to meet my financial obligations was becoming a realistic possibility, but I knew my own inclinations and I was aware the day might come (as inevitably it did!) when having the letters MP after my name might help solve many financial difficulties.

  An interest in politics is one thing: loyalty to the stated principles of one party or another is something different. One trims one’s sails to the wind. The fact is, I have to admit that I took a somewhat cynical view of the best route to take, to serve my ambition. The route to political success lay by way of the Government benches, and that meant membership of the Tory Party. The obvious first step in that direction was to obtain membership of the Carlton Club.

  My grandfather, who had many political connections from the days when he played whist with some of the greatest in the land, had prevailed upon one of those acquaintances to put forward my name for membership. I did not know the Earl of Wilton personally at that time, but Grandfather was well acquainted with him. Indeed, I had heard rumours that Grandfather had in the distant past enjoyed certain amatory escapades in Wilton’s company … when the earl was still the Right Honourable Thomas Egerton and a noted libertine of the day. Be that as it may, Grandfather made use of the acquaintance to arrange for Wilton to issue an invitation to me to dine with him at the club. Consequently, that evening I thrust aside thoughts of poor Harriet, and Ben Gully pursuing his enquiries about Joe Bartle’s watch, while I went back to the West End and prepared for my dinner with Lord Wilton.

  His lordship was in his late fifties then; had a considerable paunch, sagging cheeks, hooded eyes; his dissipated, fleshy mouth hidden by a luxuriant, drooping moustache. Ten years later we were to come face to face in the courtroom when he was accused of introducing a whore to the Queen at the Hanover Ball and it was my duty, and pleasure, to attack him in the courtroom for his social malfeasance … or as some brayed, treason. The whole thing got me into some difficulty at the time, as I recall …

  However, that 1844 evening in the club Lord Wilton proved on our first acquaintance to be a good host: we dined well on soup and duck and fish and saw off a bottle of splendid hock and a passable claret. No matters of politics were touched upon in our discussion: during dinner our conversation ranged, as I recall, over the prospects for the hunting season and the availability of whores in the West End, as he sat there proudly smoothing his thick, greying moustache. At any rate, the evening passed pleasantly enough, and at the end of it all, when we had retired to the smoking room where an aged waiter provided us with brandy and cigars, Lord Wilton was still passing informed comment on the relative merits of a certain Nelly Cook at Cleveland Gardens and a Mrs Murray who resided at Long’s Hotel in Bond Street. He was clearly more interested in whores than politics but finally was forced to allude to the reason for my presence: my desire to be proposed as a member of the club.

  ‘I’ll be happy to put forward the name of a grandson of Harvey Christian Combe,’ he pronounced grandly. ‘And I’ve no doubt that my nephew, who is also a member here, will second my proposal.’

  I murmured my gratitude, began to mutter something about the aims of the Tory Party, concerning which I knew as little as he, but was relieved when Wilton’s glance began to glaze. After a few minutes he laid his head back on the antimacassar of his leather chair and half-closed his eyes, clearly regarding the interview as over. He was soon snoring slightly, twitching his lips in a half smile, his moustache puffing as he snorted in some sort of sensual half-dream. I finished my brandy, laid aside my cigar. It was time to leave him to his lascivious memories. I was about to lean forward, touch his lordship’s arm and take my leave when I became aware that someone was standing close by, watching us. I turned my head.

  It was Lord George Bentinck.

  For a few moments his brow seemed thunderous as he stood there regarding me, an outsider in his Tory stronghold and a man who had dared sully his reputation in court. Then, slowly the expression on his heavy features changed. He jutted his lower lip thoughtfully, raised an arrogant eyebrow and then slowly walked forward. ‘Mr James. I was not aware you were a member here.’

  I rose stiffly. ‘I am present as the guest of Lord Wilton.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Bentinck said, expressing surprise. He glanced at the earl, who grunted, stirred, and wheezed away from his amative memories at the sound of our voices. Lord Wilton blinked, stared at Bentinck and grunted. ‘Ha…! Lord George … so you know young James here? Harvey Combe’s grandson.’

  ‘I had not been aware of that connection,’ Bentinck admitted after a somewhat strained moment, as he frowned slightly.

  ‘I’m proposing him as a member.’

  Bentinck looked at me appraisingly. There was a cold calculation in his glance that I did not care for. And I had no desire to spend time in his company. I inclined my head towards my host. ‘It is time I took my leave, my lord. I have some work to complete before I make an appearance at Bow Street in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, yes, my boy,’ Wilton replied, appearing somewhat confused and waving his dying cigar. ‘You cut along… pleasure to dine you this evening … regards to your grandfather.’

  I attempted to move away, stepping past Lord George Bentinck, but with a slight movement of his heavy shoulders he half-barred me. He smiled in a reptilian manner, his tongue flicking his teeth in predatory fashion. ‘Before you leave, Mr James, I wonder whether I might be permitted to detain you for a few moments. There is something I’d like to discuss.’

  He did not wait for my reply, but nodded to Lord Wilton, turned and led the way to a far corner of the room. Reluctantly, I followed. He waved me to a leather armchair placed just in front of the tall windows. I sat down, aware of the cobblestoned rattle of the dark evening streets beyond the windows. Bentinck took no seat himself immediately, but stood with his hands locked behind his back, staring at me with a certain contemplation in his cold eyes. ‘So,’ he murmured at last, ‘a grandson of old Harvey Combe, hey? He was Lord Mayor in ’96, wasn’t he? And wasn’t he the man who carried out the first interrogation of Bellingham for the murder of Spencer Perceval in 1812?’<
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  ‘I am told so,’ I muttered. ‘It was the year I was born.’

  Bentinck grimaced, and nodded. ‘And I seem to recall he was a great friend of Fox, and Sheridan too … didn’t the Duke of York visit him once at Cobham Park to play whist? The Duke of Cambridge too? He moved in exalted circles, your grandfather, for all that he was … a brewer.’

  Irritated at the sneer, I began to rise from my seat but Bentinck forestalled me with a raised hand. He flicked at his coat tails and took a seat in the armchair facing me. He rearranged his heavy features into the imitation of a smile. ‘Not an aristocrat, but a wealthy landed gentleman heaped with public honours. And your father, recently become a Secondary in the City, I believe? He will have married Combe’s daughter.’ He smiled more broadly as he stared at me, allowed his glance to linger over my features. ‘Hah … now, in fact, I seem to detect a certain resemblance….’

  A brief silence fell as I struggled to hold my temper in the face of Bentinck’s sneering tone. At last, I said, ‘There is something you wanted to discuss with me?’

  Bentinck raised his thick eyebrows and nodded slowly. ‘Yes… since you’re here. Our recent common experience … I suppose you’re aware that the damned Jew Levy Goodman made a considerable amount of money out of the Derby? In spite of all the hullabaloo. Odds of ten to one, it seems. What about you, Mr James? Did you have much money yourself, backed on Running Rein?’

  I had no desire to discuss the tattered state of my financial affairs with the Chairman of the Jockey Club. I made no reply. After a short interval, Bentinck curled his lip cynically. ‘Ah, well, your business to be sure. But an unfortunate affair, entirely. And I must admit, it did not end to my satisfaction. Nor can I say that I enjoyed my experience in the limelight of the Exchequer Court, in front of that hooting crowd. Well whipped up by your, ah, forensic skills.’ He grimaced, squinted at me reflectively. ‘But one should not look back. One should move on, look to the future, suppress unpleasant memories, don’t you agree?’

  I made no reply, but waited.

  ‘On the other hand, I must confess that you, Mr James, you made an impression on me,’ Bentinck continued in a silky tone. ‘Naturally, I did not care for your forensic arrows in my direction, but I admit there was a certain vigour in your attack in the courtroom, which is praiseworthy in a young advocate at nisi prius. A considerable practice could well lie ahead of you. With your father’s connections in the City, your grandfather’s reputation …’ He paused, glanced around the room, rested his gaze on Lord Wilton who had already returned to his slumbers. ‘Not to mention well-placed friends in a club such as this.’

  The hairs on the back of my neck began to prickle. I could not yet see where this conversation was proceeding, but a stain of suspicion was beginning to cloud my mind. Though not my judgement.

  Bentinck folded his big, reddened hands over his chest, drumming his fingers lightly on the buttons of his waistcoat. ‘There are many lawyers in the House of Commons these days. Your grandfather was a member of the Council for London for many years of course … so in seeking to become a member of the Carlton do I detect that you yourself at some stage might be interested in finding a seat?’

  I raised my chin defiantly. ‘I have yet a career to make in the courts.’

  ‘Assuredly.’ There was a hint of cynicism in Bentinck’s thin smile. ‘But if Wilton’s support gets you into this club, where you will rub shoulders with the Prime Minister, and his brother, and senior members of the Conservative Party, I feel sure that in a short time a borough might well fall into your lap.’

  ‘I have no such grandiose thoughts at the moment,’ I lied.

  ‘That may be so, James, but …’ Bentinck reflected, as his narrow eyes bored into mine. ‘Nevertheless, I’m sure you’re well aware that the first step is membership of this club. The problem is that, well, one’s acquaintances can sometimes let one down. Particularly if a person is unwise in the choice he makes of roads to wander down. A person can sometimes follow his nose into alleyways that can lead to … unforeseen consequences.’

  You know, my boy, I learned very early in the courtroom that if one is quick-witted enough it is always possible to discern the blade that is hidden under the cloak, however well concealed it might be. Moreover, though Bentinck was choosing his words with care, he was no lawyer, he lacked the finesse for this kind of business, and his arrogance would not allow him to hide his feelings and intentions too closely. I was on my guard: I could already detect the half-hidden poniard.

  ‘This rogue Levy Goodman, for instance,’ Bentinck continued in a decidedly casual tone that fooled me in no manner. ‘He is well known to be an undesirable, unprincipled liar.’

  It takes one to recognize one, I thought. But aloud, I said, ‘I have no acquaintance with the man, outside that day in the courtroom.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Bentinck queried. Oddly enough he seemed surprised and was on the point of saying something more, but then hesitated, leaned back in his chair. He looked about him, raised a hand, gesturing to the aged waiter leaning against the far wall and ordered a brandy for himself. He offered me none. But he fixed me with a cold eye as he waited for his refreshment and said, ‘Well, I may tell you he has something of a history: thuggery, race-fixing, pugilistic frauds….’

  ‘But nothing proved, I understand.’

  Bentinck glowered at my taunting tone. ‘And then there’s the matter of Running Rein. A bad business for everyone. But … as I said earlier, one must move on.’ His glance slipped away from me as he added, ‘I am of the firm view that the 1844 Derby is a book that should now be regarded as closed.’

  ‘You are not interested in what was the truth behind the affair?’ I taunted him.

  He frowned, raised his chin. ‘We reached the truth in court! As far as I’m concerned, the issues were finally dealt with in Exchequer. Moreover, Baron Alderson’s strictures were, shall we say, received unhappily in certain quarters. There is a view among many of my friends, men of consequence that these matters should now be laid to rest.’

  ‘Buried, you mean?’

  I was surprised by his reaction. His eyebrows shot up alarmingly. ‘What do you mean by that?’ he demanded angrily. I shrugged carelessly, and his stubby fingers drummed on the arm of his chair. He was always a man of uncertain temper, unable to control his emotions. Now, irked by my tone, he fully withdrew the poniard from its sheath.

  ‘Look here, James, let’s say it plain. It’s my view, and that of the Jockey Club, that after Alderson’s strictures matters should be let rest. But it’s come to my attention that you are still involved in making certain enquiries….’

  ‘I can’t imagine where you might have heard that,’ I interrupted stiffly.

  ‘If my information is correct,’ he responded with a surge of anger, ‘you’re sticking your nose into matters that are no longer of any concern to you. I think you should be made aware that any further enquiries will not find favour in quarters that have influence. The plaintiff, Mr Wood, has agreed to let matters rest. Colonel Peel has come to a suitable accommodation with the corn merchant. That reprobate Levy Goodman can be left to look after himself. There’ll be another day for a reckoning there. But as for you … there is no further reason for you to involve yourself in this whole business. Let the sleeping dogs lie. No more stones to be turned over.’

  ‘Not even to discover the truth?’ I asked sarcastically.

  Bentinck brushed the thought aside. ‘Let the matter end here, James,’ he demanded roughly. He paused as the waiter bowed in front of him, the brandy glass offered on the small tray. He took the glass, swirled and sniffed at it, waved the waiter away and sipped carefully at the liquid. Over the rim of the glass he observed me with hot, angry eyes.

  ‘You have what might be a glittering career ahead of you, James. You could enjoy a fine career at the Bar. Entry into Society. The friendship of great men. Perhaps political preferment. So don’t be a damned fool. Don’t damage your prospects. By joining
this club, you might well be able to gain the friendship of the Prime Minister’s brother, among others. But your proposed membership of the Carlton, that could be endangered if you persist in dragging up further matters connected with that damned horse….’

  His meaning was quite clear to me. I knew all about the advantage of an inside track at the races, and I knew it was being pointed out to me that I could have an unhindered run as a member of the Carlton Club … if I behaved. But, perhaps foolishly, I felt resentful, and my dislike of this bully of a man stuck in my throat. I rose, bowed slightly. ‘Thank you for your advice, Lord George. I must now take your leave.’

  Bentinck was enraged, hardly able to believe I was resisting him. His tone changed, threateningly. ‘Damn it, James, I want your assurance that you’ll leave this business well alone!’

  ‘That is something I cannot do,’ I retorted.

  For Bentinck it was like a slap in the face. And leaving him sitting there, empurpling, well, perhaps it was ill-advised conduct on my part. I could have used more discretion, perhaps have even been accommodating. Bent with the prevailing wind. But I was unable to countenance further that man’s arrogance, and the underlying menace in his tone.

  My intransigence in the matter, well, I knew that almost inevitably it would cost me membership of the club. And with loss of membership there would also be lost the opportunity to rub shoulders with government ministers, gain influence, reach for a seat in the Commons in the government interest … but it was not to be.

  The result was predictable. The Earl of Wilton was as good as his word. He duly proposed me a few days later, his nephew seconded me, but a single blackball was sufficient to deny me entry to the Carlton Club.

  I had no doubt whatsoever it was Lord George Bentinck’s blackball … or that of one of his minions from the Jockey Club.

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